


Play Your Heart Out

by lennons_lemon_queen



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lennons_lemon_queen/pseuds/lennons_lemon_queen
Summary: If you ask around Quarry Bank High School who John Lennon was, most of them would reply“You mean the squinty git that always has something to say?”And, rude though it might be, John didn’t care much for a reputation. He is in the process of building his way to his own success. Until he stumbles upon Paul McCartney, son of the school’s headmaster. Each have their own fair share of problems, but both have a shared solution. And, even though neither of them is willing to admit it, they need each other in more ways than one.Suddenly, the road ahead doesn’t look so bleak.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Hi guys! This is my first feature-length fic! I hope you all like it! Feel free to comment and message me through my tumblr @prettyjohnnylennon -Log]

 "JOHN!!!“ Rasped a shrill voice from the window. 

John was sitting in the patchy lawn out front of his aunt’s house, the sun beating down on his pale skin as he sucked a plume of smoke from a half-burned cigarette. He had found it in the dirt around the backside of the English Hall at school the previous afternoon. It was Wednesday. The day Mimi went out to town to go to bible study. He sighed and extinguished the cig, slipping it into the ankle of his sock. 

 "Yeah?!” He called back, walking over to the back door. 

 "Be a dear for me and get my dressy jumper from the closet. Martha is going to be there tonight and you know how ritzy she looks.“ 

 John rolled his eyes and laughed as he got inside. 

“Since when did you care about Martha? I thought you said she was a dirty liar, and had slept with the minister.“ 

 Mimi went quiet a moment. "But she has a pantsuit for every day of the week, and a closet full of dresses!" 

 "Mimi, I think you look fine the way you always dress." 

"Yeah, sure. In my pajamas and ruddy apron.” John sighed and retrieved the jumper. 

 "You’re going to be unhappy no matter what I say, so here. Live it up.“ He handed the black beaded sweater to her. 

 Mimi chuckled, and she turned to John, looking at him intently for a moment. Her blue eyes crinkled when she smiled and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. "You’re all grown up now, John." 

 "Mimi–" 

"Don’t go cuttin’ me off, boy.” John giggled.

 "You’re all grown up now…And I wanted to say that Miss Julia would be proud.“ She leaned over to press a kiss to John’s head.

 John tried to appear cool and collected as he always does in these moments, but he felt the warm sting of tears threatening his eyes. He blinked and looked down at the yellow tiled floor of the kitchen. 

 "Oh, Johnny. Don’t be sad…” Mimi pulled him to her in a tight hug and John tried to wriggle free at the aspect of near suffocation. 

 "I’m fine, Mimi.“ He cleared his throat. 

 "But you’re 17 and pretty soon you’ll be going out there, living, working…”

 "I know…“ 

Mimi took a deep breath and dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. She sniffed. "I shouldn’t be bringing this all up before I go…Might mess up my face." 

 John grinned. "Exactly so." 

 Mimi gave him one last hug and with a lingering, loving gaze, walked out the door. She disappeared half a minute later down the road. John stood there for a moment, between space, between time, it felt. But he snapped himself out of it and went outside to finish smoking his fag. 

* * *

James Paul McCartney was an honor student. So near the top of the class that he could taste it, but never could quite reach. The seemingly endless pursuit rendered him sleepless at times, near crazed. Nights filled with cold sweat, anxiety, and an aching feeling of not being able to live up to standards put there by men who had nothing better to do than watch the youth suffer. Paul knew he was smart. Smarter than most who reached the top, but whatever he did never seemed to be good enough. People treated him differently than most as well. Was it his appearance? His left-handedness? His occasional stutter? Paul had dealt with his fair share of bullies in his lifetime to last through several. He couldn’t get through a hall most days without someone yelling ‘hey twink, pass the maths exams, eh?’ Paul wasn’t amused. His softer, androgynous appearance had given him trouble since pre-school. And the homosexuality jokes seemed endless. Unlucky enough for Paul, he had actually developed a couple crushes in secondary school that, once the boys found out, transferred out of Liverpool for ‘a better educational experience.’ So, for the time being he had given up the prospect of developing a relationship with anyone. It was easier to focus on exams that way, anyway. He didn’t need the psychological distraction intimacy created. Past the occasional fling with a willing bird, anyways. He could hear people drop their volume when he’d pass, talk amongst themselves. 

 ”…Do you think he might be one of those…y'know, women who wear bloke’s clothes?“

 "He could be a bird, now that all of ‘em are takin’ a liking to trousers.”

 "Let’s see, shall we?“ A tall slicked back kid strode up quickly behind Paul, a short, stout lowerclassmen in toe, and grabbed his ass from behind. Paul turned, face flush in shock. He resisted the urge to knock the kid flat on his own ass with his textbook and stood silent, staring him down, or up, from his height. "You are a boy ain’t ya, Paulina?" 

 Paul remained silent, glaring. The tall kid stood closer, the scent of alcohol strong on his breath against Paul’s cheek. Before he knew it, he had groped him and a fire rose in Paul’s chest so quickly he hadn’t known what happened. Blanked out entirely, he presumed, as he smashed the front end of his textbook right onto the scumbag’s forehead. 

 "Jesus Christ!” He yelled as he stumbled drunkenly to the tiled hallway floor. “That’s no way for the son of a minister to be behaving, let alone speaking, Tyler.” And with that, Paul strode off to maths in room 106. 

 But John saw it. All of it. And he was struck dumb.

 "…Holy shit.“ A grin took over his face. John had an unusual desire to attend maths for once.


	2. Chapter 2

“Lennon, late I presume?” Professor Laraby’s tenor floated from over by the chalkboard that was slowly becoming covered in formulas and theorems.   
John sighed and sat in his rickety desk in the back of the class, it’s metal legs screeching against the ruddy tile floor.   
“Now,” Laraby continued and his voice dawdled on into some explanation that John unknowingly tuned out. He was too busy focused over near the front of the class where the young man from the hallway hastily filled a notebook page with whatever was on the board. He was elegant, sophisticated. And had a trumpet case beneath his desk.  
John rested his head on his palm and only came to when the hard leather toe of a shoe came slamming into his right shin.   
“What the fuck?” He turned to the lad sitting across from him.   
Some boy john had forgotten the name of, but often glanced over at for answers nodded toward the board.  
“Thank you, Clarence.” Laraby said. “Perhaps you will be able to focus better in the headmaster’s office, Lennon?”   
“Perhaps you’d be able to talk without putting me to sleep.” John replied, monotone.   
“Office.” Laraby’s teeth gritted. “Now.”   
On his way out, John took one more glance back at the boy and he looked up, all pale skin and dark eyelashes protruding from wide, innocent eyes–and winked. 

* * *

John preferred the seats in Mr. McCartney’s office. They were leather. And didn’t squeak when you leaned back in them. But the aftermath of sitting in them tended to be much worse.   
He couldn’t get the image of the young man out of his head. What was his name? Surely he had heard it before…James, or something noble-sounding like that.   
The click of the office door behind him signaled John that the  headmaster was here.   
“What is it now, Lennon?”   
John crossed his ankle over his knee and smiled pleasantly.   
“Well, everything was going well, I’ve done the wash at home, weeded the garden, cleaned me glasses–”  
“–I meant here.”   
John grinned.  
“Laraby sent me.”   
“Again? For what this time?”  
“You don’t even know? Then how should I?”   
Mr. McCartney snorted a sound of soft amusement.   
“ _Touché_.”   
“ _Parlez-vous Français_?”   
“ _Oui, vous aussi_?”  
“Bless you.”   
“I didn’t sneeze.”   
John shook his head.  
“Never mind.”   
Jim McCartney sat back in his chair and sighed. He didn’t dislike John. He knew he was a brilliant kid, and saw a lot of himself in him. But it’s always hard to get the kids that see through it all to cooperate. This young man who had been forced to grow old at such a young age. Mr. McCartney saw a deep sadness in his eyes behind his black framed specs. One that caused serious internal damage. He shook the depressing thoughts from his mind.   
“How’s your aunt, John?”   
John fiddled with a paper clip on Mr. McCartney’s desk.  
“She’s fine. Just had a birthday.”   
“Well, tell her I said happy birthday then.”   
“Can do.”   
Mr. McCartney squinted at John’s hairdo.  
“What is that stuff you’ve always got in your hair?”   
“Pomade.”   
“And it makes it stick up like that?”   
“Yeah.”   
“What an odd fad.”   
“All the rockers seem to be doing it now.” John unbent the paper clip.  
“So I guess that means you’re still playing?”   
“I can’t not play, or sing. It’s a part of me.”   
“I think you’d be able to focus more if you weren’t doing these late night gigs.”   
“I can’t stop playing the same as you can’t stop teaching here, or whatever it is you do.”   
Jim sighed. John looked up and caught a glimpse of a photograph over on Mr. McCartney’s bookshelf. There were two young boys in the picture standing in front of a woman in an apron. One of the boys has his arm around the other. The other who looked so strangely similar. The defined curve of brow and the delicate cheekbone.   
“Mr. McCartney, if you don’t mind me askin’, who are those people?” He gestured to the picture frame.   
Jim turned around and a number of emotions crossed his face all at once.    
“Those are my boys, James Paul and Michael, and my wife, Mary.”   
Holy fuck. A thousand thoughts poured into John’s mind. Paul. That was the name. Paul is the headmaster’s son. That’s why he’s such a brain–because he has to be. He always looked so inwardly tortured. But he still held himself in such pride and esteem that the average person would never even notice. John, though ignorant at times he may be, noticed. And the only part that bothered him was how much he wanted to help him. And he was musical too? A trumpet player, at that. _Christ, he’s got a fine set of lips…_ John–for the sake of the Protestant lord–focus.  
“…Lovely family.” John said quietly. He tucked the now-dismantled paper clip into his jacket pocket.   
“Thank you,” There was a brief pause. “but I do believe you should head back now. Wouldn’t want to miss sixth period.”   
“Yeah, right.” John stood, still in a bit of a daze, nodded, and left.   
“Jesus, help that kid.” Jim muttered as the door clicked shut. He took out a silver flask from his drawer and downed the liquid it held as he gazed pensively at the photograph on the shelf. 

* * *

Paul’s cheeks were red. Never had he expressed such a reaction in school. Especially not from a MALE CLASSMATE. He chewed the end of his pencil and forced himself to concentrate. French 104 was his sixth period and each day it dragged by slower than the last. Then after school he had rehearsal with the school’s choral and band programs. Which made him be home around 6:00. By that time, things at home would have already gone from bad to worse. Lamps would be broken. Couches torn. Kitchen destroyed. And even though Paul had fallen into routine with it all, he would never be used to it. Never be used to the rageful cries that pierced his ears at night, or the sound of his own brother’s sobbing. Never be used to the far too-calm mornings when they all sat at the marble table still littered from evidence of the previous night while his father had coffee and read the paper, chuckling at some irrelevant thing. ‘Is this what it’s all come to?’ He would wonder, spreading jam on toast as Michael sipped his orange juice. _‘Tomorrow will be better. It has to be. Things can’t stay bad forever…’_

The acoustic sound of Presley’s 'hound dog’ came wafting through the cracked window and brought Paul out of his numb state. Laughter bubbled shortly after the opening chords and someone yelled 'Johnny, play the other one!’   
There was a brief silence before he heard 'Don’t Leave Me Now’ and a soft crooning voice flowing through it. Paul’s eyes grew wide. He had heard that voice. That was the lad who played for the school dances. The lad that was rumored to play adult clubs at night and sweep all the college birds off their feet. And it was his classmate. **Who winked at him.** Him. Not the girl behind him. But Paul. He could feel his chest tighten, the palms of his hands getting damp.   
“ _Madame_?” Paul asked. “ _Puis-je utiliser les WC?_ ”


	3. Chapter 3

Paul tread carefully. His light brown leather shoes creaked in the soft dirt of the flower bed and he crouched to observe the small band sitting on the brick wall behind the Science Hall. They were laughing, smoking and plucking away at chords. Varying them in speeds and organization until they had found a sound they liked. The boy from earlier had his glasses hiked up on his forehead and he was smiling down at his guitar as he plucked a chord. Paul subconsciously found himself smiling, and he shook his head to clear his thoughts.   
"Alright men," Paul looked up at the boy again as he spoke. "let's do it."   
The other three men whooped and dove into a song. The percussionist drummed on the wall as there wasn't a drum set, but it sounded good all the same. They sang something that was reminiscent of an American Blues number mixed with the usual Skiffle music Paul was used to hearing around town. He liked it, and had never heard anything quite like it other than on the radio or in the juke boxes at diners downtown.   
Near the end of the number, the bassist peered out at the empty schoolyard, when his eyes snagged Paul's. He went tense and stopped playing.   
"Oi, what the fuck?" John pushed the boy by his shoulder but he was still looking in fear over at Paul in the bush.   
Paul, by this time, had already gone into panic. He ducked down almost completely to the ground (as not to get his jacket dirty) and covered his head with his arms.   
To his own horror, rustling sounded and before he knew it--all four of them were looking down at him.   
"Oh, hello there." John said casually, a hint of flirtation in his voice.   
Paul felt his face get hot.   
"I fell. I was getting up, so I'll be leaving now."   
The drummer offered Paul his hand and he took it, standing up.   
"How did you fall?" John asked.  
"...Tripped."   
John glanced down.  
"On what? Your shoes're tied."   
"On a rock." Paul felt he had answered too quickly.   
"Why're you interrogating the poor lad, Johnny. Leave 'em alone." The drummer pushed John playfully.  
"You ain't me mum."   
The other guitarist spoke in a high-pitched voice and stepped closer to John.  
"That sod isn't, but I am." He pulled John by his ear.  
"Ow! You arse!"   
Paul didn't know what to say or do, he just watched them quarrel like children.   
The drummer and bassist stepped in between John and the other guitarist, blocking their slap-pushing fight.    
"Act like men, why don't you?" The drummer said.  
"Why should we act like men when one of 'em claims he's me mum?" John smiled.  
"Why do you continue to speak when you know you're just ruining this further?" The bassist asked.  
John scowled and went silent.   
The second guitarist dropped to his knees in front of Paul in a begging stance, his hands clasped together in desperation.  
"Oh, please, Mr. Principal-Man--don't report me for the music and the fags!"   
"Not to mention skipping class." The drummer added.  
Paul fidgeted nervously. Did they think he was spying on them for his dad?  
"I-I don't report people..." He managed quietly. He could feel John's eyes on him.  
"You don't?"   
"Apparently not. But he has no trouble smackin' 'em silly with his books." The bassist said.  
Paul's eyes widened, and, as John thought they were already quite large, it seemed nearly impossible for them to actually get any bigger. A swarm of conflicting emotions rose in his chest. Pain, anger, and sadness swirled around like a storm and just when he turned to leave, John put a hand on his shoulder. Paul froze dead in his tracks and turned to face him. His eyes were soft, the dusky color of a milky chocolate.   
"He doesn't mean it."   
Paul wasn't sure if he meant the bassist or the boy that harassed him, but it was enough. 

* * *

 

Paul ended up skipping the entirety of sixth period. He felt himself grow even more intrigued by John and his merry band of mates.   
"So you're the lot that plays all of the dances then?"   
"The dances? Those sad things?" Rod, the second guitarist asked.   
"I used to think they were quite nice. But they're not?"   
"They're nothin' compared to the clubs, Paulie-boy." Colin, the drummer said.   
"Well, I can imagine. But it's all just noise, innit?"   
"It's not just noise, it's life, it's freedom, it's this intense, breathing energy!" Rod hopped a couple times, overexcited by his own words.   
"It's a right racket, but it's a good one." John said, physically holding Rod in place so he would stop bouncing.  
Paul must've caught Rod's enthusiasm because before he could stop himself, he found himself asking, "Do you need a trumpet player? Or a pianist?"   
John grinned widely and the others went silent in amazement.   
"You'd be down?" Colin asked.  
Paul smiled. "Yes."  
"What do ya think, Johnny?" Rod asked John.  
John looked over at Pete, the bassist and, despite his worried expression, clasped a firm hand on Paul's shoulder.  
"You're in, baby." 

* * *

 

"The Quarrymen?!" George rolled his eyes, heaving a great sigh. "You honestly have no idea what you've just signed yourself up for." He rolled a cigarette and leaned back against the cold gray slab of concrete that made up the back of the English Hall.   
Paul didn't have many to tell of his recent endeavor, but out of the lot George is the one who he was most anxious to tell. He had known George throughout the entirety of his High School career and if this ruined their friendship, Paul wouldn't know what to do.   
"I know. They're a bunch of loons..." He started. "but, they're all very talented! I think this would be a good opportunity for me...I need something right now. And I've found it in music."   
"They're more than loons," George blew a cloud of smoke up into the air. "they're delinquents.  And not the good kind."   
Paul raised a brow. "There's a good kind?"   
George grinned, "Well, there's us isn't there?"   
"I'm the farthest from a delinquent you can get, George. And that's half the problem. I want to live. I want to experience things. Raw, real things! Something that isn't gray like everything here."   
George seemed to sink into deep thought a few moments. He stamped out the mostly-finished cigarette in the dirt.  
"This isn't over one of them is it?'   
Paul tried not to look startled. "N-No."   
George squinted at Paul. "I give it a week." 

* * *

 

"Alright, boys, from the top!" Colin yelled from behind his drums.   
They had an actual space to rehearse that wasn't school property the following afternoon. Pete's house had an empty basement that his parents were willing to let them utilize.   
The band rolled into a jazzier number and Paul waited for his cue from Rod to play a few bars of freeform in to compliment the piece.   
This was his first rehearsal with The Quarrymen and was worried sick about what John would think. God, don't let his fingers fail him now. 

* * *

 

"Alright, boys, from the top!" Professor Sreytonne lifted his baton and guided the choir into some Latin hymn Paul hadn't bothered to look over the previous night. He swayed slightly and his eyes were tired, but somehow he managed to get a nod of approval from Sreytonne. The feeling of rehearsal here was the exact opposite Paul felt from ones with The Quarrymen. Here, it was all order--structure. Clean cut physics, perfection. But in Pete's basement it was Passion, excitement, curiosity. A free sensation that gave Paul goosebumps. Colin was right. It was 'breathing energy.' And the best part was that they hadn't even played a club yet. 

* * *

 

"Erm, McCartney," John called from across the courtyard. ‘

 _‘Fucking git, don't stagger your words_ ' He thought to himself.

Paul turned at the sound of John's voice.   
"We've got a gig this Saturday. Nine o'clock outside --Latterdales on Port and Hamner."   
Paul had seen the place briefly before, enough to know that it advertised that it has strip shows on Thursdays and the music that poured out always drew a large crowd outside the front doors.   
"Got it." Paul started to walk away.  
"And er, McCartney?"  
"Yes?"  
"You're shoe's untied." 

* * *

 

That night John stared up at the beige colored ceiling of his room. Insomnia had started taking control of his life around the time of his mother Julia's death. Some nights he doesn't sleep at all, and finds that he had blacked out periodically in a class or in mid-sentence. It was a struggle, but he was used to it now.   
But as he laid there, in a thin mint green sheet drawn up to his chest that his feet stuck out of--an image of Paul roamed into his thoughts. He was smiling. That pure expression of happiness that ignited his soft face. John wanted to make him smile like that. Wanted to keep this boy away from all of the corruption. All of the pain.   
It was then he knew he had gone too far.   
John had always dated women, made a big show of it. But he had been with men too. And he liked it. But he couldn't get the same emotional connection most of the time that he had with women. A lot of the men he had wanted to date were too brash--distant. Rude, even. So he gave up on pursuing them romantically or physically and just stuck to women.   
"Christ," John muttered in frustration to himself. "why do I have to be such a giant queer?"   
He flung his sheet against the wardrobe door and laid there, hoping exhaustion would claim him soon. Maybe it was sleep-deprivation playing games with his mind. 


	4. Chapter 4

Latterdales was filled thick with smoke--be it from cigars, cigarettes or, well, other possible illegal substances. Paul almost couldn't get a breath at all. 

 

"How can you lads breathe?!" He yelled over the sound of the first band playing as they set down their instruments. 

Rod grinned widely. 

"You get used to it."

"That's a lie." Pete socked Rod in the arm. "He's jus' not breathin'." 

"Am to!" Rod was about to punch Pete back when the jingling of the door opening made them all direct their gaze at John walking in with his guitar case. 

"Johnny boy!" Colin tapped his drumsticks excitedly on Rod's guitar case. 

"Hullo all." John stood with the group.

"Why're you wearing your sunglasses in here? There isn't any sun." Colin asked.

"To take the piss outta ya so you'll ask." John unwrapped a stick of gum.

"Someone's cranky tonight." Pete said.

John slipped his sunglasses up onto his head to reveal a black eye. Everyone reacted instantly.

"What happened??" Rod asked.

John sighed and shook his head.

"I hit myself in the face with my guitar while tuning." 

Colin snorted but everyone else looked skeptical. Paul was trying not to look as concerned as he felt. So much so, that sweat started to glisten on his brow in the heat of the hazy room.

"C'mon, Johnny. Be real. Did Catherine give ya what for for finding out about Mindy?" Rod whispered.

John shoved Rod.

"Lay off." 

Paul bit the inside of his lip. John was into girls? A sinking feeling settled in his chest and suddenly Paul felt stupid about his juvenile feelings towards his classmate. His older classmate who was going to graduate. Who had a band. 

Was it too late to walk out? 

"Quarrymen, you're up next!" A pudgy man behind the bar counter pointed his thumb to the stage and they all walked over to set up.

Apparently it was. 

"John," Paul started. His name sort of slipped out and he had no idea where he was going with it. And when John turned to look at him all train of thought was lost.

"Yeah?" John's sunglasses had been replaced and it was hard for Paul to make out his expression.

"Are you...Are you alright?" 

John looked as startled as Paul felt. 

"...I'm alive aren't I?" He smiled. A warmth spread in Paul's chest. "Don't worry yourself over me, McCartney. I'm a big boy." 

"Is that what you tell your mother?" Paul joked.

John laughed softly. 

"I would." He patted Paul on the shoulder and walked off to situate himself with the band. 

Paul was smiling too all the way up to his spot in the lineup until it hit him. Would? He couldn't possibly... 

"Alright everybody give a warm welcome to Liverpool's Quarrymen!" 

The club whooped and hollered and suddenly all of Paul's thoughts went to how nervous he was. Colin counted the beat and soon they burst right into a song. Paul wasn't cued to come in until the chorus so he just watched excitedly as John sang his powerful, yelling vocals against the upbeat tempo of the song. Already, girls were giving him looks from the audience and Paul didn't have time to figure out how that made him feel because he was playing his piece in the number. 

* * *

 

It was electric. Pulsing, swinging music filled every pore of Paul's body and the crowd only got livelier. It had gotten so hot and humid that a bloke had to prop open the front door, but it only encouraged more people to come in. 

John was on fire. He would wink and flourish his guitar to the audience, and, if Paul wasn't mistaken, at him once or twice. But he was blushing so hard as he played that he just tried to tune him out in fear of fucking up. 

 

As it wound down and a few groups of sweaty club-goers trickled out, they brought the numbers down. They were playing a slow dance song now and John was crooning out lyrics to a Presley cover. Paul had switched to various handheld percussion instruments, trying not to stare. 

The club owner snuck out from the bar to speak to Pete as he played.

"Try not to be too tough on 'em, but we hafta close in five." 

Pete nodded and elbowed John in the ribs causing him to choke on the verse he was singing. Apparently this was a previously communicated gesture because John switched back to his yelling vocals despite the mellow instrumental.

"We've had a great time, but now it's time to...GET THE HELL OUT!" 

Colin laughed audibly from behind his drums and Rod switched tempos. Now all of them except Paul started to sing improvised lines at the audience. 

"THANK YOU FOR COMING, IT WAS REALLY SWELL! DON'T LET THE DOOR HIT YOU, ...REMEMBER THE BOOZE BILL!" 

Annoyed by the nonsensical racket, more and more people started to leave.

John turned to Paul and raised his sunglasses off his face.

"C'mon now, don't be shy. Give 'em what for." 

Paul was still blushing and he looked nervously down at his shoes on the slate stage as if it would give him the words.

"DON'T GET TOO COMFY NOW, IT IS RATHER LATE! SO TIP YOUR WAITRESS, LAD AND SCUTTLE OFF WITH YER MATE." 

"Good one," Colin set his drumsticks down and Rod put his guitar back in its case.

John's giggle was the best sound Paul had heard all day. Well, other than his singing.

Pete patted Paul on the shoulder. 

"You've done good tonight, lad. Do you think you might want to do keys next time? Maybe a vocal or two? Since you are in choir?" 

Paul was glowing.

"Sure!" 

"Great. Rehearsal as normal, then." Pete gave Paul a smile and headed out the door with Colin. 

Meanwhile, Rod was trying to get John to talk about what had happened earlier. 

"C'mon, Johnny! I gotta know!" 

"Fuck you."

"I won't care if you got beat up by a bird, I promise." 

"Rod, get out." 

"At least tell me if it was a bird or not." 

John hesitated.

"It was." 

Rod looked stunned. 

"Jeez, Johnny, I...I'm sorry." 

"It's alright." 

"Well, I'm gonna go. G'night. Say hi to Mimi for me." 

"I will." 

Rod disappeared into the night fog that was seeping in from the partially cracked door. Paul wanted to talk to John, but didn't know what to say, or how to say it. He stood and collected his trumpet case, watching John from the corner of his eye as he put his guitar away.

"You heard didn't you?" John asked calmly.

"...Heard what?" 

"What I said just now. To Rod." 

Paul looked down again. 

"I've stopped caring what other people think of me a long time ago. So I won't be offended if you think I'm a tosser." 

"I think that whoever she was," Paul looked up at John. "was very ignorant to what she had." 

John's eyes grew wide. He chewed at his lip.

"You...wha...?" 

"This woman, she hurt you right? I mean, I don't think there's any reason good enough for that. And obviously if she really cared about you she wouldn't physically beat you up like that." Paul felt as if he were saying too much so he cleared his throat. "I should get going, y'know. It's almost one." 

John didn't move from his spot. He just stood there, looking at Paul. Paul bid John goodnight and started to head outside when he felt a gentle brush of fingertips against his wrist. He turned.

"...Walk with me?" John asked quietly. 

Paul had never wanted to walk somewhere with someone more.

* * *

 

The first part of the walk was a content silence. The city had fallen to a faint hum in the background as they walked by the riverside through the dense fog. Paul stole glances at John and he could feel John do the same. 

"So, how far do you live?" Paul asked.

"Not far from the school, actually. You?" 

"A bit uptown." 

"You mean past the city hall?" 

Paul nodded.

"Your family must be in good finance then." John huffed a quiet sound of amusement.

Paul shook his head. "Me da worked for every penny. Before that it was me mum. But, there was an accident...About last year."

John stopped walking staring blankly into the grey pavement. Paul turned to look at him and anxiety seized his gut.

"Are-Are you okay?" 

John looked up with tears in his eyes and he didn't say a word. Only wrapped his arms around the younger boy as he trembled slightly. Paul didn't know how to react, but he was already crying without realizing it. John pulled apart and looked at Paul's tear-stained face. His beautifully intricate eyes puffy and outlined red. He brushed away a tear with the pad of his thumb and Paul's dark eyelashes flashed briefly against his cheek. 

"Please don't tell anyone, but I think you're absolutely beautiful." John's voice was below a whisper, as if he didn't want the fog to hear.

Paul looked up at John and opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, so John covered his lips with his own. Paul gasped, tensing as he realized what was happening. But soon after, the kiss grew in intensity. Paul clutched at the back of John's shirt, pulling him closer or himself closer he wasn't sure. His other free hand roaming the soft lines of the side of his face, the strong line of his jaw. John could feel the brush of Paul's eyelashes on his skin, the gentle press of his nose in his cheek. Could feel his heated breath ghost across his lips. John had to pull himself away. Paul was breathless. 

"...I'm...sorry." John scratched the back of his head. "I should--"

"--No." Paul put a hand on John's shoulder. "John, I care about you." 

"You do?" John's stomach flipped.

Paul nodded. He pressed a kiss to John's cheek. 

John could've screamed and jumped straight into the river, but he didn't. To his own surprise.

"Well then, on that note..." John kissed Paul again, sliding an arm around his waist. 

Paul could feel himself blushing.

When they broke apart, John cleared his throat.

"I should, erm...My aunt's going to have me arse." 

Paul laughed.

"Then get home, you." He shoved John playfully.

John couldn't stop smiling.

"I will." 

"Hey, Johnny?" 

Paul could tell there was a faint red tint on his cheeks even through the fog at the nickname.

"...Yeah?" 

"Your shoe's untied." 


	5. Chapter 5

John slipped his arm through the thin crack of the bottom of his bedroom window and began to carefully pull it open from the outside. Every creak and sharp screech of the wooden frame was like nails on a chalkboard in the deafening silence. When the opening was big enough for John to slip through, he tumbled in, hitting his head on a bedpost.

 

"Ow, shit." 

"Just what in the WORLD do ya think yer doin'?!" 

John didn't even have to turn his head to know who it was.

"Sport. It's a new one called 'fall on yer sodden head through a window.' S' big in the States." 

Mimi sighed. 

"John. It's one-thirty in the morning. Usually you're back from whatever pointless gallivanting you do by ten." 

John got to his feet and shut the window.

"I know. We ran late." 

Mimi pinched the bridge of her nose. Now that John's eyes had adjusted to the darkened house, he could see her standing in the hall. Her hair done up in pink curlers as she wore a blue nightgown. 

"You know I want you to be happy, Johnny. But I've been tellin' ye that this 'rocker' thing is goin' ta interfere with your grades. And you were already having trouble as it is." 

John sat on his bed, the mattress springs groaning with his weight. Suddenly, he was five again and he was being scolded for drawing on the walls in crayon. 

"...I know." 

Mimi walked into John's room and grabbed one of his hands, holding it in one of her own soft ones.

"You are so smart, Johnny. Use that big brain of yours and finish off strong."

John looked up at her and grumbled as she patted his head.

"Now, off ye go. You hafta wake up in a few hours. And take that gunk outta yer hair!" She said from the hall as she went back to her room. 

John sighed and rubbed his face. Fatigue ached in every bone in his body. He took off his sun glasses and set them on the nightstand before standing in front of the mirror. The black bruise shone brightly under his right eye. 

"...Jesus, Lennon." He murmured to himself. 

The injury had been given by none other than Catherine Lancing, his now-ex girlfriend. Rumors were never John's friend, except when they gave him backing so he would be picked on less. In this case, word had 'gotten out' that he had slept with Catherine's brother Jeremy. And when Catherine saw John and Jeremy laughing together at lunch--well, she didn't take it well. 

" _Bloody queer_!" She had yelled at him in the corridor. 

John had gotten in his fair share of fights, but he wouldn't hit a woman. No matter how badly she hurt him. 

The truth is, John did sleep with Jeremy. How people found out, he wasn't sure. But he tried to shrug off the incident with Catherine in attempt to draw attention away from his affair. 

John soaked a rag in warm water in the sink and, stripping down to his underwear, laid it over his eye as he flopped into bed miserably. To his own surprise, sleep came easy.

Maybe he needed someone to give him a good bash every now and then.

* * *

"Alright class, the goal is to analyze Shakespeare's sixth-first sonnet. As we have finished sixty yesterday." Mrs. Ellenberg, an elderly woman, shut her heavy book on her desk and began her rounds through the classroom aisles. 

John had been blinking himself awake the past fifteen minutes so he opened his book to try and wake up.

Even with his glasses on, the letters were blurred from exhaustion on the page.

 

"Is it thy will thy image should keep open

My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,

While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?"

 

John asked the girl sitting next to him for a pen and, as she handed it to him, her eyes caught his bruise.

"What happened?" She whispered.

John's mouth formed a tight line. 

"...Long day yesterday s'all." 

The girl nodded unsurely, directing her gaze back to her book where she had already written half a page of notes. 

John began to try and annotate the first paragraph and what he got only made color rise into his face as he scrawled,

_'Can't sleep. Thinking of loved one. Frustration at them not knowing how deeply they feel.'_

John rested his head down on his desk, not wanting to read on any further. A gentle tap on his shoulder startled him.

"John, please get back to work." Mrs. Ellenberg said.

When John lifted his head to respond, Mrs. Ellenberg stared at his eye in confusion.

"Don't worry about it." He said, and put his head back down on the desk. 

Mrs. Ellenberg didn't question him.

* * *

 

Paul had been smiling all morning. He cursed his cheeks for betraying him but even when working, the corner of his mouth would quirk into the beginnings of a grin. 

By the time he had gotten home last night, his father had already passed out, and Michael was asleep in his room, no new bruises or scrapes to be found from anything he might've missed. So Paul went giddily to bed, his interaction with John playing over and over in his head like a film. He could still feel the warmth of his body against his own if he focused hard enough. Let any of those assholes think and call him what they want. But John cared about him too. And that was what was fueling Paul's world right now. 

"What's got you so happy?" George whispered from the desk next to him. 

Paul bit his lip, trying to conceal his smile. He shook his head.

"Nothin'." 

George's dark eyebrow raised in disbelief. 

"Don't play me, McCartney." 

"Fine. The gig went swell. We played late on and I had a great time." 

George was still not satisfied.

"Is that it?" 

Paul wrote a line of nonsense down on his notebook paper.

"Yeah." 

George shook his head.

"Maybe somethin's goin' 'round." He said. "Hope I don't catch it." 

* * *

Lunchtime had come at last and John slipped in next to his usual mates in line. No one mentioned his eye, probably more out of fear than courtesy, but hell, he'd take it. He heard a giggle from the doorway of the mess hall and when he turned to look, he felt his blood still. Paul was talking to a bloke with his food tray in hand, gesturing excitedly. John was overcome with excitement.

"Oi, McCartney!" 

Paul jumped and tripped over a metal chair, his food falling to the tile floor. A smattering of laughter was heard from the back of the line. 

Quickly, Paul rose and adjusted himself. Thankfully, his food was in a plastic container and nothing spilled out. He was bright red and adjusted his disheveled gray jacket. When he saw John up near the front of the line, he walked to meet him. His heart  beating in his throat. George had walked off to sit down with an expression Paul couldn't quite make out.

"Y-Yeah?" 

John snickered. 

"Try not to make a scene next time, okay?" John put a hand on his shoulder and guided him through as he got his own food. 

"...That wasn't done on purpose." 

John grinned and picked up an apple from the desert tray on his way out. 

"A natural, eh?" 

Paul felt his ears grow hot.

"Shut it." 

"You don't take jokes well, do ya lad?" John sat at one of the tables with Paul next to him. A few of his mates filled in the empty spaces.

"As of late, no." Paul dipped some bread in his soup and tried to avoid direct eye contact.

"Looks like Paulie-boy's poutin.'" John bit into a sandwich.

"Don't tease me when I've got a bowl of hot liquid." Paul mused.

John laughed.

"Too true." 

"Do we have practice this afternoon?" 

"Yeah. But we dunno where we're going to go yet. Pete's mum's gettin' over the racket." 

Paul bit his lip in thought.

"I have a place." 

John looked on, amazed.

"Yeah? Where?"

"I'll just wait to show you until later. But tell Pete and the others that I've got one." 

"It's a deal."

Paul smiled down at his soup. But John squinted at him a moment.

"Paulie?" 

"...Yeah?"

"Ye've got a bit of lettuce in yer quiff." 

* * *

"Are you sure we should be in here?" Colin whispered to Paul as they walked in the pitch dark of the hallway. The choir room was ahead down at the end.

"I can't even see me bleedin' hand in front of me face!" John complained.

"Quit yer whinin'" Pete struck a match and led the way to the door. 

Paul took a ring of master keys from his trouser pocket and slipped key 107 into its place. 

"One of the benefits of being the headmaster's child, I assume?" Pete asked. 

Paul didn't want to ruin the supposed ideal picture Pete assumed was his life so he nodded.

"Nicked 'em before he left this afternoon from the office." 

The door creaked open and Paul flicked on the lights. The room was spacious and had a grand piano in the middle of it. The acoustics were to die for.

"Well, here we are boys." 

John whistled.

"Spiffy." Rod flipped open the cover to the piano keys and set his guitar case down on the tile floor.

Colin took a seat on one of the stairs for the choral arrangement, sticks in hand. 

"What're we takin' it away from?" 

Pete turned to John as they grabbed their guitars. 

"Well it's gonna be something with keys in it--since Paulie's here." John checked his tuning. 

"Richie, maybe?" Rod asked Pete. 

Paul sat at the piano bench and climbed up the C scale with his right hand lazily. 

"I know quite a bit o' ragtime from me da." 

Rod made a fart sound against his hand and everyone giggled. 

"Who wants to listen to that sod?" 

John kicked Rod in the shin. 

"If he wants to play, let 'em play, you. We can always join in." 

Rod grumbled. 

"He's right, you know." Pete tuned his bass. 

"Alright, then, take it away, McCartney!" Colin whooped and twiddled his sticks against the stairs. 

Paul could feel his hands start to sweat as he stared at the ivory. He tried to shake off the feeling. 

_'If I play, the tension'll wear off...'_

He pressed the beginning chords to Alexander's Ragtime Band, his left hand flowing up and down the keys in accompaniment. 

"Oh, I've 'eard this..." Colin muttered as he started to tap along to the tempo. 

Pete soon joined in, playing around in harmony to the melody line. 

Paul was grinning as he played, memories of his mother teaching him parts of this song and how accomplished he felt when he was able to work both hands at a time on the keys. 

 John smiled at Paul without realizing and alternated between two chords on his own guitar, keeping rhythm.

Rod was the last to come in at the chorus and improvised a riff to fit in. 

"Oi, this doesn't sound too bad!" He said over the racket. 

"You're right!" Colin bounced a little, excitedly. "We might be able to bring this to a club a time or two." 

"Y'know what'd sound even better added in?" John asked.

Paul turned his head as he reached the bridge of the song. 

"A trumpet." 

Paul's lips quirked at the corner of his mouth and he shook his head. 

"How can I do both? That won't to." 

"Y'know, Pete knows the trumpet." 

Paul shifted chords, playing the last bit only with his left hand. 

"But who'll do bass?" 

"Colin knows a bit o' bass. Enough to get 'em by this number. I say we add it to the repertoire." John nodded to Pete. 

Pete gave his blessing with a slightly irritated sigh. 

"Hopefully we won't be rioted with tomatoes." 

Paul ended the song and turned to his mates on the piano bench. 

"I don't think it'll hurt 'em any."  Rod said. "If anything we'll be able to surprise 'em." 

"I hope it's 'surprise' and not enrage." Pete murmured. 

John rolled his eyes at Pete. 

"It'll be great." He said. John loved seeing how happy Paul was when he played. "He'll be great too." He ruffled Paul's hair and Paul blushed brightly. 

He hoped no one had noticed.

* * *

The following night they were set to play Latterdales again. It was hazy as usual, but the crowd was already drunk by the time they arrived and were swaying and raving it up to some new number off the radio. 

"Alright lads, the stage is clear for ye. Mind the mic cords." The bar owner told them from behind the counter. 

"Did you set up the piano?" Pete asked him. 

"Piano?" 

"All of the arrangements we had prepared need keys! I told you that last week!" 

The barman blinked, one eye slower than the other. He was extremely intoxicated. 

"I don't recall." 

Pete scoffed. 

"Do you even own a piano?" 

The barman poised his hand to his chin, as if in deep thought. One of the patrons at a stool tapped on Pete's shoulder. 

"There's one in the basement. They bring it out Tuesday nights so it'll still be out in the hall." 

"Thank you." 

Pete walked over to the band. 

"Alright. Colin, I need you to help me move the piano over here. John, Rod, and Paul--play something for the audience so they don't get antsy." 

Rod turned to Pete. 

"But what're we gonna play with no bass?" 

Paul shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a nervousness rising in his throat, and before he knew it, he had stepped forward. 

"I-I...er, know a bit o' bass." 

Rod's eyes grew wide. 

"You do?" 

John was equally stunned. 

"Alright then, here--it's all yours newbie." Pete shoved his guitar in Paul's hands as he ran off with Colin. 

Paul noticed immediately that it was right-handed and sighed, slipping it on over his head anyway.

"What's the matter?" John asked. 

"...I'm left 'anded." 

"Can ye play with yer right?" Rod asked. 

Paul ran his left hand along the neck in a series of little scales. 

"I suppose so. I've had to do it a couple o'times before." 

"Good! Then let's roll of! Hit 'em with the Presley, Johnny!" 

John smiled and strummed an opening chord, Rod jumping in after him. Paul was last to join in as John started to sing, fitting in what he thought sounded best. 

The crowd was moving, couples dancing and skirts twirling in the foggy light of the stage. No complaints so far. 

Meanwhile, Pete and Colin were pushing the very large and very heavy white piano out of the back hallway toward the stage. Colin stopped a moment to listen. 

"Can you 'ear that?" 

Pete stopped, sweat dripping down his forehead, flattening his quiff. 

"...Yeah." 

Paul was improvising chords and scales and swinging right along, blending seamlessly with the arrangement. And, despite the fact they didn't have drums yet, holding rhythm really well. 

"Well I'll be damned." Pete shook his head and continued to push. 

* * *

John couldn't stop glancing at Paul. Through both of the Presley songs they tossed at the audience, it was even more lively than before. They were all sweating to the bone, and Paul was singing too, though not directly into the mike as John. His voice carried far enough for him to hear and the lovely harmonies that drifted over were enough to almost make John loose his place on the fretboard. 

_'This boy is going to be the death of me...He doesn't even know what he's doin', jumping into my life like this. Who does he think he is? Jesus, I need a drink.'_

As the number ended, Colin and Pete hopped breathlessly onstage. 

"We got the keys." Colin panted. 

Paul smiled and gave the bass back to Pete. 

"Thank you for lettin' me play." 

Pete was at loss for words. 

"...Thank  _you_." 

"He's brilliant isn't he?!" Rod shook Paul by the shoulders excitedly. "Tell 'em what he did, Johnny!" 

Rod turned but John wasn't there. 

"Johnny?" 

"I'll 'ave a rum and coke on the rocks." John told the swaying bartender. 

He slipped him the glass of amber liquor over the chestnut bar and John downed half of it. 

"John get your sorry arse back over here!" Pete yelled across the bar. 

John held up a finger. Maybe not the one intended to mean 'hold on', but it was all the same to him. 

When he returned to the group he was settled to a low buzz, able to control his previously rapid train of thought. 

"Don't get yer knickers in a twist, I'm back." 

Everyone got situated once again and Paul sat at the piano, anxiety seeping into his every pore. He took a deep breath and cleared his head. He imagined himself playing for all of his loved ones, his mother smiling and clapping along to the merry beat. When the band joined in, he was brought back to the present and the musical vibrations grounded him in the moment. 

He could feel the air wafting at him from the swing of Rod's guitar, and when he glanced up from his hands, John was smiling at him. And not the smile he had seen on campus--showy and challenging. This was genuine, and the simple purity of it thrilled Paul in ways he wasn't sure were possible. It felt as if someone had planted a flower inside of his chest and it was blooming. 

There were no vocals in this rendition, but the audience danced all the same. Paul heard a couple of birds ask one another where and why they had heard this song, yet couldn't place it. A little smile crept onto Paul's face and he kept playing, adding little extra bits in between verses. 

When it was over, the audience demanded an encore. John tried to quiet the rowdy, drunken crowd. 

"PLAY SOMETHIN' ELSE!" 

"IT'S CLOSIN' TIME IF YA WANT TO PLAY SOMETHIN' ELSE BRING YER OWN RUDDY INSTRUMENTS!"

A collective groan was heard from one group and, reluctantly, they all poured out of the club into the cool night air. 

Colin and Rod patted Paul on the back excitedly before they left, Pete shook his hand. Paul thought it was a bit odd but dismissed it. 

"Oi, Paulie--erm," John started, he walked halfway over to Paul, fearing rejection in his consecutive invitation for a walk. "d'ya wanna...?" He gestured vaguely to the door.

Paul smiled. "Yeah." 

* * *

"Why didn't you tell us you played bass?" 

Paul blushed. John had been praising him relentlessly since they exited the bar.

"Because, it's the last instrument I learned my way around and I'm not very confident in it yet." 

John laughed. "You sure as bloody well looked confident up there!" 

Paul smirked. "I've had a lot of practice in looking like I know what I'm doing." 

John blushed, though he wasn't sure why. He tried to shake it off when he remembered the other night. When he kissed him by the river. His pulse quickened as he saw they were nearing it now.

"Erm, listen--about Saturday--"

Paul put a singular finger to John's lips, quieting him. John could feel his heart beat in his throat. Paul looked at him a moment, with his big doe eyes, almost as if he were analyzing him. And then he smiled. John felt like he had been punched in the gut.

"There's nothing to apologize for. I didn't push you away, did I? I didn't call you anythin' or go punchin' ya."  He removed his finger.

John's blush had only gotten worse. He looked down at the damp pavement. But his attention was soon grabbed as Paul closed the distance between them, his soft lips brushing the slightly rough surface of John's cheek. 

"I feel the same way." 

John shuddered. 

"Y-You do?" 

Paul covered John's mouth with his own and soon they were engaged in a cycle of warm kisses. John pulled away a moment to breathe and gather his head and Paul just looked at him with those eyes of his, and those bloody eyelashes. All creamy skin and the slight reflective surface of his pink lips.

"Would you want to, y'know, be together?" 

John's throat tightened.

"Y-You mean...physically?" 

Paul rolled his eyes.

"Emotionally, physically, anyroad." 

John's eyes widened. He couldn't think of a verbal response so he just hugged Paul to him instead. 

And that was enough for Paul to understand. 

* * *

A plate shattered against the wall, sending shattered chips of porcelain down to the kitchen tile. 

"YOU WON'T EVER LEAVE THIS HOUSE AGAIN, YA HEAR ME?! YOU ONLY LEAVE HERE TO GO TO SCHOOL AND THAT'S IT! NO MORE CHOIR, NO MORE BAND REHEARSAL." 

Paul had shrunk to the carpeted floor of his dining room. He was covering his head with his arms, trembling, but above all, sobbing. 

"...I'm sorry..." 

"SAYING YOU'RE SORRY ISN'T GONNA CUT IT!" 

Michael was crying in the living room, but he slowly approached his father from behind.

"But dad, Paul hasn't done anything wrong! He was just playing music with his mates!" 

Jim turned around in a fury and Michael backed up.

"YOU--GO TO YOUR ROOM!" 

Michael walked hurriedly down the hall and shut the door to his bedroom. 

Paul had uncovered his face, his eyes bloodshot with tears.

"Da, I promise I won't stay out so late. I'll leave the gig early, whatever it takes." His quiet voice trembled, he tried to appear calm as he had found that calmness often countered anger better.

Jim suddenly looked tired, his limbs going slack in an exhausted slump as he sunk down in the kitchen chair. He put his head in his hands and there was a long pause between them.

"...Why do I scare you boys so much?" 

Paul didn't know how to answer. His father sat up straight and fixed his alcohol-stained tie.

"Your curfew is 11:00. Not a minute more. Now--get to bed. You have school in the morning." 

"Yes da." 


	6. Chapter 6

  
John was whistling as he walked down the sidewalk near the backside of the school, his hands in his pockets. He was in an exceptionally good mood today. John was overjoyed with the prospect of rehearsing with Paul again, or sitting with him at lunch, or, hell--just plain seeing him at all.   
"Mornin' Johnny." A girl in a pink skirt and red top winked at him and he barely acknowledged her presence at all as he strode down into the quad.   
No sign of Paul yet. He usually came early and was sitting either reading or talking with a mate. But he was nowhere in sight. John chewed his lip to counter his nerves. 

* * *

  
Paul had woken up late that morning, still in his clothes from last night. His hair a gelled mess. He messily spread some jam on a biscuit, threw off his shirt and buttoned on a new one, pulled on some slacks and ran out the door with his school bag. Thankfully, he didn't live far.

* * *

  
John was already nodding off in first period, but Mrs. Ellenberg let him sleep. She was one of the more understanding of his teachers--while the others would write him up for just about anything.

Paul's first period teacher, on the other hand, was not as merciful.   
"Why, Mr. McCartney, how lovely of you to finally join us." Mr. Heralding said, tapping his pointer stick to Paul's desk.   
Paul sat down, his face flush from running and humiliation.  
"English, is a serious subject. And, you, being a serious man, should know that."   
"...M'sorry, sir." Paul mumbled.   
Mr. Heralding sighed and shook his head, resuming his lecture.  
"Now,"

* * *

  
"I'm tellin' ya, he's dodgy, that one." George whispered hastily to Paul as they stood in line for lunch. They could see John near the front of the line talking to Pete and Colin.   
Paul huffed.  
"George, I know who's dodgy and who's not dodgy, and that boy, most certainly isn't." He shuffled along with the rest of the sluggish crowd as the line inched forward.   
George eyed Paul curiously.   
"...You fancy 'em, don't ya?" He lowered his voice.  
Paul looked down at his shoes.   
"I knew it."   
"George, please." Paul looked up at his trusted friend's brown eyes. "Let me have this. I'll be careful, I promise."   
George tried to resist Paul's soulful staring, but gave up in a scoff.   
"Okay, alright, fine! Just don't stare into me with yer bleedin' woman eyes!"   
Paul pinched George's arm.   
"Ow!"   
"Hush up. I'm going to go talk to him."   
"I'll say a prayer for ye."

Paul maneuvered his way up to where John was standing and tapped him on the shoulder. John turned, a look of pure joy on his face.  
"Paulie, glad you could make it."   
Paul wore a smug smile.  
"Busted my arse to get here today, I did."   
John huffed a laugh as they walked through to get their food.  
"Why? What 'appened?"   
Paul's mind briefly flashed back to last night and he cleared his throat.  
"Overslept s'all."   
John eyed Paul skeptically.  
"You sure?"   
"Yes! Jesus, why is everyone psychoanalyzing me today?!"  
"Psycho-what?"   
"...Nothing."   
"Now, don't get me wrong, lad, I enjoy the use of the expanded vocabulary as much as the next bloke, but I'm a bit slow in the mornings." John said as they took their seats.   
Paul snorted.  
"Not to worry. I find I'm usually slow. The time o' day rarely matters."   
John punched Paul playfully in the shoulder.  
"Shut up, ye've got grades ta die for."   
"Doesn't mean I'm not slow."   
"...Whatever helps you sleep at night."  
Paul began to pick at something he assumed was pudding with a plastic spoon. It's consistency was far off from normal, but it looked like chocolate. And Paul rarely said no to chocolate.   
He could feel John looking at him and he grew self-conscious. Well, more than usual. After a few moments, Paul's eyes met his.  
"...Is something the matter?" He asked.  
John's brows were furrowed and his eyes were fixed to Paul's cheek.   
"...What's that?" He pointed to his own cheekbone in correspondence to Paul's.  
Paul was confused.  
"What's what?"   
John pulled a metal comb from his pocket and held it up for Paul to use as a reflective surface. It was then that Paul realized he had a cut going up his face at an angle. It was subtle, but with John sitting directly next to him, it must've looked a lot worse.  
"Uh, my brother's cat." He lied. "She hasn't ever really taken to me well."   
John wasn't buying it. But he nodded politely anyway.  
"Nasty cat, that one." Paul ate a spoonful of pudding and tried to relax despite John's eyes burning into his cheek.   
"Paul,"   
"Yeah?"   
"...Bit o' pudding--just there."

* * *

  
Maths in room 106 was going the way it always had.   
John in the back making snide comments, Paul in the front hiding his giggles with his hand as he copied notes.   
"Mr. McCartney, if you find Mr. Lennon's anecdotes to be so amusing, why don't you join him in the office?" Mr. Laraby suggested, a smirk on his thin face.  
Paul's expression fell. He let his pencil fall to his notebook.   
John huffed from the back.  
"Why're you picking on him for? He hasn't done anythin'! Half the whole class was laughin' anyroad!"   
Mr. Laraby's already-challenged patience was being tested.  
"Maybe you'd prefer to explain that to the headmaster?"   
John stood.  
"Maybe I will."   
Paul froze in anxiety. He didn't know what to do, he had only been called into the office a couple other times for something his father wanted him to do, but never like this. He walked gingerly out of the classroom with John down the hallway.   
"John, you didn't have to do that." Paul was flattered and terrified.  
"S'becsuse I wanted to." John smiled warmly. "Who's gonna defend yer arse if I'm not there to be the big scary Johnny Lennon?" He joked.  
Paul pushed John playfully.   
"You sod."   
John walked into Mr. McCartney's office with Paul and they sat in the leather armchairs in front of the desk. He could tell how tense Paul was and slid his arm over discreetly to place his hand over his, but the office door pushed open and John retracted his hand as if from fire.  
Jim looked at the pair before him and raised a brow.  
"Paul? What's the matter?"   
Paul stuttered, not knowing how to form a sentence that would even remotely reflect what had just happened. At least coherently.  
"Laraby got peeved that Paul laughed at something I said. But he wasn't the only one."   
Jim shook his head and sighed.  
"So why did he send him?"   
"I'm under the impression that he doesn't like me too much." Paul said quietly. "At least not now."   
Mr. McCartney crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.  
"Paul, go back to class. If he gives you any more trouble, come back to me."  
Paul nodded and looked back at John a moment before walking back down the hall.  
"John, allow me to let you in on a little secret..."  
John leaned forward comically, his hand cupping his right ear.  
"My family doesn't reflect poor character. Or poor grades. I trust you to know that."  
John nodded.  
"Good. Now, off ye go." 

* * *

  
What Jim had said was buzzing around in John's mind like the full thrum of a hornet.   
Did he not want him around his son? Well, that fact was probably obvious, but why didn't he just bloody tell him instead of playing games with his mind.   
'If you're good enough...' it boiled down to in his thoughts.   
John kicked an empty can around in the dirt behind a welding class. He was supposed to be in sixth period, but he needed to clear his head. Which he realized would be futile at this point.   
A soft voice called out behind him.  
"...Hey,"   
John turned to see Paul standing there in his dress slacks and collared shirt, a book bag on his shoulder.   
John panicked internally.   
"What're you doing here? You should be in class." He pushed his black framed glasses up on his face.   
Paul raised a perfectly sculpted brow.   
"I should ask you the same."   
John sighed and sat down on the curb.   
"I'm always doing something off, you know me."   
Paul sat next to him, his arms wrapped around his knees. A trait John found endearing, but chose not to say anything.   
"...Did me da say anythin' to you? After I left?"   
John fidgeted with his shirt collar.   
"No."   
Paul looked skeptically at John. He rested a hand on his elbow, eyes scanning his profile.   
"C'mon, Johnny,"   
Heat pricked up the back of John's neck and he looked down at the street. He hesitated.   
"...He said that his family didn't reflect poor performance, and I assume he was hintin' he didn't want you ta hang around me--yet here you are."   
Paul huffed agitatedly and tossed a rock into the bush across from him.   
"He always says that."   
John covered Paul's hand with his own gently and brushed the pad of his calloused thumb against the smooth surface of its back. Paul looked over at John, hazel eyes swimming with a multitude of emotions he couldn't piece together.   
"...Is anybody looking down the road?" Paul whispered under his breath.   
John flicked his gaze over his right shoulder at the empty courtyard.   
"No."   
The moment the word escaped John's mouth it was covered with the soft insistent press of his Paul's lips. His eyes fluttered as he moved a hand up into his dark hair, fingers slipping through the silky strands of black.   
Paul pulled away suddenly, a bit of fear crossing his expression.   
"...I shouldn't've..."   
John cupped Paul's cheek in hand, dragging his thumb down to trace the full outline of his lower lip.   
"No. It's okay."   
Paul looked at John in the most vulnerable way, he felt as if he were intruding on something. His eyes traced over the thin jagged cut on his cheek again and his hand slid from Paul's face.   
"What is the deal with yer dad? I know you said you've lost ye mum."   
Paul tried to put on a serious face but John could see how many reactions flashed in the reflective surface of his eyes.   
"...I 'ave. But me da didn't take it well. He had always drank but he didn't drink like he does now. He's just not himself anymore, and I don't know what to do about it."   
John felt his heartstring snap.   
"You mean he...he did that?" He pointed to Paul's cheek.   
Paul panicked.   
"Not purposefully. At least last night it wasn't."   
John put his head in his hands. Paul tried to reassure him anyway he could.   
"...He threw a plate against the wall and it shattered."   
John groaned.  
"How is that bastard allowed to be working here, with kids?!"   
Paul put his hands in his lap and sat quietly, feeling like a child. John calmed himself down after a moment and turned to look at him. The expression in his eyes made Paul's chest ache.   
"...I want to be able to spend time with you." He said simply.   
Paul looked confused.   
"We've got practice tomorrow afternoon. And a gig this Friday."   
"No, I mean I want to be able to be with you in places other than school, or the band."   
"How will we manage that? ...It's hard for me to get away from the house most of the time."   
"Is your dad gone on weekends?"   
"Saturdays he usually goes out with a lady friend of his."   
John pondered.   
"So you're free this Saturday?"   
Paul laughed.   
"I suppose so."   
"How d'ya feel about dinner at my place? I've heard it's very extravagant, even though the cook is a bit of a sod."   
"You cook?"  
"It's not my best quality. I've burned tea before."   
"Sounds lovely."   
"Good. It's a date." 

* * *

  
"A date?!" George flailed his hands in the air, cigarette smoke billowing from one.   
"Yeah."   
"You haven't gone out in months."   
Paul rolled his eyes.   
"What are ye, me attorney?" He snagged George's cig and took a puff.   
George frowned.   
"First ye get a date with Lennon and now you're smokin'--what's next?"   
"Calm down, d'ya really think I've never 'ad a ciggie in me life? I've been nicking da's cigars for the past two years."   
George's disappointment was replaced with a slight respect.   
"I never would've guessed. What brand is he partial to?"   
"...Ruverton. Tastes a bit like chocolate caramel sweeties."   
"I judged you wrong on that one, I did."   
Paul smirked. 

* * *

  
John was sitting on his bed, ankle crossed over his knee as he balanced a sketchbook unsteadily on top. His pencil outlined the beginnings of a familiar face. A Presley record was playing on a turntable propped up against his pillow, soft static whirring in between the warm timbre of the music that poured out.  
"John, did ye load the wash?" Mimi called from the kitchen.   
John finished drawing the smooth curve of a jawline.   
"...I think."   
"Ye think?"   
"Yeah."   
There was a pause and John thought the conversation was over but before he knew it a stained undershirt flew onto his cap.   
"Load the wash, ye nutter."   
"I will!"   
"Why don't ye just get it over with now?"   
"Because I'm..." He stopped himself.  
"You're what?"   
John sighed. He stood and tossed his sketch pad onto his bed upside down before grabbing his pile of dirty clothes from the corner of the room.   
"Mimi,"   
"Yes?"   
"What're you doin' this Saturday?"   
Mimi paused to think.   
"Nothin', I think."   
"Why don't you go and see Margaret again?"   
"Well, that does sound nice. But she's got two grandchildren to look after."   
John poured his load into the bucket of soapy water in the bathroom.   
"Doesn't she 'ave a nanny?"   
"Y'think?"   
"Probably."   
Mimi let out a sigh.   
"Maybe I will go and see 'er. We can finally quilt like she keeps tellin' me."   
John smiled, his reflection glinting off of the soap bubbles clinging to the pan.   
  


 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday rolled around faster than Paul had predicted. It was a surprisingly warm day, a few scattered clouds in the sky. He was still in his pajamas at noon, staring into his closet when his dad came in.  

 

"I'm off." 

Paul grunted. 

"S'that all you've to say?" 

Paul sighed and walked over to his dad, putting his arms around him. Jim patted his head. 

"I'll be back around 10." 

"Okay." 

"I love you." 

"I love you too, da." 

 

He decided on a blue button-up shirt and black trousers. His pea coat for later in case it got cold. Paul trotted downstairs, his bare feet against the cold wooden floor to make a cup of tea. 

"What're you all energetic about?" Michael yawned as he spread jelly on a piece of toast. 

Paul couldn't help his constant smiling.

"I've a date." 

Michael snorted. "A date?" 

Paul frowned as he turned the stove on to boil water.

"I'm insulted at your tone." 

Michael rolled his eyes. 

"Y'know you're only two years older than me." 

"But I'm a helluva lot more mature." 

"You think so?" 

Paul put a hand on his hip.

"I know so." 

"What's the sum of a number and thirty-two?" 

Paul stared at the wall in a slight panic. He wasn't sure when the last time he paid attention in math was, but it was long before he noticed John...

"I said I'm mature, not a math expert!" 

"Then when did Columbus discover America?"

"...Ages ago." 

"Shut up Paul." 

"Don't tell me to shut up, you should be worryin' 'bout yer grades an' whatnot." 

"You too!"

"Oh, quiet." 

"Hey, math expert," 

"What?" 

"Yer tea's on fire." 

* * *

"And make sure to turn the gas off when you're done cooking your dinner." 

John sighed. "Yes Mimi." 

"I should be back around seven." Mimi stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to John's cheek. 

John smiled softly.

"Be safe." 

"I will." 

****

"My date told me to meet them at their house at 4. It's 3:00 now, so I need to get ready. Get off me bed." Paul fussed with his reflection in the mirror. 

Michael rolled his eyes and stood, dragging his feet over to the doorway.

"You're probably worrying about more than she is." 

Paul grabbed his crisp shirt off the hanger and held it up to his chest in the mirror. 

He could see Michael looking at his reflection.

"...Looks good on you, that one." 

Paul smiled affectionately.

"You think so?"

"Yeah. Ye picked a winner." 

* * *

"SHITE, BLOODY CHRIST!" John sloshed a pan of cold water onto the metal bowl on the stove to extinguish the chicken that had burst into flames.

He was mostly done with the dinner, but now he had ruined a piece of the main course. 

John looked over at the clock. It was 3:39. 

"I have to get dressed!"  

He grabbed a white collared dress shirt and a pair of slacks from his closet, which may have been slightly crumpled but hey, 'he wouldn't notice once he put 'em on.' 

John was looking in the mirror, as nervous as if he'd never seen Paul--running gel through his hair after a quick shave. 

A knock sounded at the door and that's when John actually tripped over his own foot when running to answer it. Taking his glasses off because he thought he looked better was only half of the reason. 

"Paul," He couldn't keep from grinning as he unlocked the door for him to step in.

"How are you, Johnny?" 

John realized that the kitchen still smelt faintly of burnt chicken and blushed.

"...I'm as okay as I can ever be." 

Paul giggled.

"Yer auntie's out, right?" 

"Yes sir." 

"Good." Paul stole a quick kiss and wandered over to the stove where dinner was sitting in various pots and pans. 

John was flying from the simplest of gestures and he tried to ground himself. 

"You did all this?" Paul appeared very moved.

John's blush deepened, he scratched the backside of his neck.

"...Yeah." 

Paul smiled warmly at John and John's stomach flipped. That was the smile. The one he needed so desperately. The one he hoped he could see all the time. 

John leaned over, his lips a breath away from Paul's and he barely brushed them with his own in a whisper of a kiss. Paul wrapped his arms around John's waist. 

"Thank you." He said quietly.

John was still blushing.

"You're welcome." 

"Now, let's eat before it all gets cold." 

* * *

"How old d'ya think it is?" Paul observed the bottle of wine that John was struggling to uncork. 

"...M'not sure. But whatever it is, I trust Mimi to have picked a good one. Wine is her poison of choice." 

Paul leaned back in his chair, watching John as he stuck a butter knife into the cork to try and pry it out. 

"...How long has your aunt taken care of you?" 

John responded between his struggling groans. "...Since I was about thirteen, I reckon. But I've been...around 'er me whole life." 

Paul tried not to giggle at John's persistence with the cork. 

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" 

"Positive." 

Paul got up anyway and tried to grab the bottle from him. 

"No! I can do it." 

"John, you're goin' ta end up dropping it." 

John gave up in a pout and Paul searched the utensil drawer. He pulled out an icepick and pushed it through the center of the cork and popped it out. 

John sat down at the table, quietly stunned and Paul grabbed their wine glasses to pour it. 

' _Now I'm in the role of the bird_ ' John thought dryly. 

"It tastes lovely. Though it's a bit tart." 

"Whuddy'a expect from a bunch o' grapes?" 

Paul rolled his eyes and sipped his glass. 

"Are you pouting again?" John teased. 

"I don't pout." 

"You're just further proving the point." 

"Shove off." 

John grinned, his mind buzzing from the wine. 

"Aww, I think he likes me." 

Paul huffed. 

"Don't be that way..." John walked his fingers comically across the table in attempt to cover one of Paul's with his own but Paul retracted his. 

John sighed. 

"What'll it take to fix yer sorry mood?" 

Paul looked away and began to inspect the wallpaper, his arms crossed over his chest. 

John started to hum the tune to Love Me Tender, Paul's gaze flickered over at him, but snapped back. John drew closer and rested his chin on Paul's shoulder, still humming. Paul was straining not to react. He began to count the flowers on the border of the wallpaper. 

John reached carefully for one of Paul's hands and dropped down on one knee, surprisingly, Paul allowed his hand to be taken and John placed a kiss to the backside of it as if he were courting a lady. 

"... _Madame_ ," He mused, in a posh accent. 

Paul snatched his hand away, blushing furiously. 

"I'm not a lass!" 

"Don't ye think I know that?" 

Paul secretly enjoyed being fussed over but his embarrassment took first priority in this situation. 

"...Then don't do that..." 

"I've never been on a date with a bloke before, I was only jokin' with ye." 

Paul suddenly felt rude. 

"...You've never...?" 

John shook his head as he took back his seat. He took a sip of his wine. 

Paul went silent, guilt rising in his chest for his showy put-on. He stood and walked over to John, wrapping his arms around his shoulders from behind and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

"M'sorry," 

John couldn't help but grin. 

"S'okay." 

* * *

They played a Chuck Berry record on John's little tattered turntable propped up on the little bathroom sink near his room. 

It echoed like a concert hall and the swinging guitar notes poured into John's room. They had danced a bit earlier, both clumsily twisting and hopping about. Laughing and entangling limbs, flailing and more giddy laughter. John felt a pure electric joy seeing Paul so happy. It was better than any drug he had slipped before a gig, better than any bird he'd ever had a fling with--better than Elvis? Possibly...

* * *

They were both tipsy on wine and Paul was looking through John's books, thoroughly inspecting each one.

"...Ye didn't strike me as a poetry man, Lennon." 

John blushed.

"...It's what I prefer readin', over long novels anyway." 

Paul stumbled across a much older looking volume. 

"T.S Eliot?" 

John nodded. 

"Yeah, he's a pretty intense bloke." 

Paul laughed. "Indeed." He wanted to go off and ask a bunch of analytical questions about his favorite piece--what he thought about Eliot's view of time or age but didn't want to scare him away. 

"Ye want a ciggy?" John offered, pulling a pack he had nicked from a corner store last Saturday morning from a seemingly discarded sock in the corner of the room. 

Paul laughed. "Sure." 

John handed Paul a cigarette and flicked his lighter when he put it to his lips. Fire cracked and illuminated the soft lines of Paul's face and John stared a moment. For some reason, it felt intimate, this simple gesture. 

Paul blew a plume of smoke and removed it from his lips, watching as John lit his own. He had moved over on the bed and was lying on his stomach, still flipping through Eliot's anthology though his eyes kept looking over at him. 

"Would you be insulted if I called you beautiful?" He asked quietly. 

John almost choked on smoke. "...Erm, no." 

Paul smiled and flipped a page, the red-orange glow brightening between his lips as he took a drag. "Good." 

John walked over and sat next to Paul squinting at the page. He eventually gave up on trying to sort out the blurred mess and ran his fingers through Paul's hair, leaning back on his headboard. He saw Paul's eyes stop scanning the endless flow of words they followed and look back at him a moment. 

Paul sat up and leaned back against John, book still in hand. He felt utterly content there, even lulled to the point of dozing.

"Johnny, yer gonna make me fall asleep." 

John giggled boyishly. "So? No one said a date couldn't involve a nap." 

"I did." 

"And why's tha?"

Paul tried to think of a response but he couldn't, he sat there, half-lidded eyes unfocused. 

"I dunno." 

They drifted off quickly, Paul's head on John's chest on the little twin-sized bed. This was the first time John had been able to sleep at night in the past three days and his soft snoring was the only sound that filled the room. 

Until a key turning in the back door had John wired like a spring. 

Was it 7:00 already?

Paul started as John jerked awake and fell off the bed. He looked down at him. 

"What the hell? Are you okay?" 

"Pick up my guitar!" 

"What?" 

"Pick up my guitar!" 

"But--"

"--Don't question it just do it!"

Paul stumbled across the room and picked up his guitar, strumming out a thoughtless tune. 

"John, are you in bed?" Mimi called from the kitchen. 

"No." 

He heard her shuffling footsteps on the carpet as she walked toward the hallway of the bedroom. She put a hand to her chest when she saw Paul. 

"Oh, hullo!" 

Paul smiled sweetly, as if he were used to making genuine first impressions. 

"Hi, you must be Mrs. Smith." He set the guitar down and walked up to shake her hand and press a kiss to her cheek. 

Mimi blushed. 

"Are ye a mate of Johnny's?" 

"Yes. I'm Paul, Mr. McCartney's son." 

Mimi's eyes widened in shock. 

"Mr... McCartney? The headmaster? That McCartney?" 

Paul smiled and nodded. Mimi turned to John, playfully smacking his shoulder. 

"Why didn't ye tell me, boy?! Please, make yerself at home." 

"He already has." John said. 

"Quiet, you." Mimi answered. She insisted on asking about Paul's experiences in school and his numerous musical abilities.

Politely, Paul went on and he knew John was listening the whole time, even as he strummed his guitar absentmindedly on his bed. 

"You're gon' question 'em to death." 

Mimi sighed. "Can I not have a conversation with the lad?" 

"He came here to practice with me." 

"So that means he only talks to you?" 

John's cheeks turned scarlet and he looked down at the copper strings of the guitar. 

"Thought so." 

Paul laughed softly. "Don't steal me too long," he said. "he gets jealous easily." 

"Oh, trust me dear, I know. I raised 'em." 

* * *

It was 9:30. Mimi had insisted Paul had a piece of pie before he left and John was walking him out on the front porch. 

"I had a lovely time, thank you." Paul said warmly. 

John looked over at the kitchen window to catch the warm glow of the ceiling light shining behind closed curtains--good.

"It was my pleasure." 

Paul blushed and pecked John's cheek, but John wrapped his arms around him before he could step away with a throaty laugh. 

"John, what're you doing?" 

John closed the space between them so that they were nose to nose, his intense eyes looking into Paul's soft ones.

"Kissing you." 

He could feel the heat rise in Paul's cheeks and he covered his lips with his own gently. After a few moments, Paul pulled away.

"...I 'ave to get home." 

John cleared his throat and nodded. 

"Alright. G'night, Paulie." 

"'Night Johnny." 


	8. Chapter 8

As the weeks progressed, rehearsals became tense. Arguments broke out among the group about who was going to play what, and how well. Pete was furious.  
"If McCartney's so good at everything, why doesn't he just have his own bloody band then?!" He had yelled last session.  
Everyone admitted they liked Paul's stylistic bass, and that his vocals were impressive. Pete had trouble hearing pitch, but no one had complained much before. Suddenly, it was too much.   
Paul didn't want to be the problem. Yet somehow he always found himself in that position.

"Johnny, does Pete hate me?" Paul was lying with his head in John's lap in a deserted little park in the graveyard near Frothlin Road.   
John scoffed. "'Course not."   
Paul sighed, his pretty features tensing. "Then why doesn't he talk to me? And why doesn't he want me to play?"   
John was playing with Paul's hair. "He's jealous."   
Paul was surprised. "...You think so?"   
"I know so. He's dodgy when he's jealous. But don't mind 'em. It's mainly for show."   
Paul sat up. "How do you know he's jealous?"   
John furrowed his brows. "I can just tell. I've known him for three years, Macca."   
Paul's lips went into a tight line and he turned to the side.  
"What's wrong?"   
"Nothin'."   
"C'mon, ye can tell me."  
"No I can't."   
"Then don't pout about it, for Christsake!"   
Paul put his head in his hands for a moment. "...Have you ever-- _been_ , with him?"   
John's throat tightened. "Macca!"   
"Have you?"   
John groaned. He shifted agitated hand through his quiff.   
"You have, haven't you? That's why he's mad. Not this bloody bass shite."   
"I swear, I was never...intimate with 'em. I kissed him a few times a couple years ago--but that was it."   
Paul looked angrily down at a fallen twig in the grass.   
"Paulie, I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. I'm crazy about you. Fuck, the way you breathe gets to me!"   
"...You said ye've never dated a bloke."   
"I 'aven't! Pete and I were never a couple."   
Paul exhaled deeply, his expression softening a little around his eyes. He turned to look at John.  
"...I'm sorry, Johnny. I get worked up easy sometimes."   
John shook his head. "No. I should've told ya."   
Paul cuddled up next to John as he caught a chill in the breeze and John wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close.   
"...This is probably a bad time to say this, but I dunno when else I'm going to," John said. "Pete's leaving the band."   
Paul tensed. "He is?"   
"Yeah."   
"Wow. That's a lot to take in."   
John kissed the top of Paul's head. "I know, baby."   
"You realize what this means, right?" Paul asked.  
John shook his head.   
"I'm gonna need a bass." 

* * *

  
The next morning Paul took his trumpet in its case and walked along the boardwalk of the Mersey in search of a pawn shop. It was sunny, minimal clouds drifting along the picturesque blue sky. The thrum of the river sounding around him.   
About a quarter mile down the road he found one, it was small and old, but seemingly trustworthy. It had the look of a place owned by someone's grandmother. The bell jingled as Paul walked in the glass doors.   
"'Lo sir, anythin' I can do for ye?" The shopkeeper asked merrily, a white rag in his hand as he wiped down the counter.  
Paul cleared his throat. "Erm, do you buy instruments?"   
The shopkeeper smiled. "Depends on who's askin'."   
"...Well, I am." Paul responded gingerly. "I was hoping to sell this trumpet for a bass guitar."   
"A musical man, eh?" The old man shuffled along the back aisles of the store, most likely, for any sign of a bass guitar.   
He returned with a large faux leather casing and unclasped it.   
"Go on, 'ave a look."   
Paul was nearly speechless, it was in great condition. And such a lovely color. There was only one problem.   
"Do ye have any for left-handers?"   
The man pondered a moment. "...'Fraid not."'  
Paul set his trumpet on the counter a little reluctantly.   
"Is she real brass?" The man asked.  
"...Yes, except for the keys."   
"Then the price should cover it."   
Paul allowed the man to take his trumpet and disappear into the back before handing him the bass in its case.   
"Thank you."   
"Of course. Best of luck." 

* * *

  
The following Monday at rehearsal Rod didn't show.   
John kicked a stone into the brick wall dividing the school from the street and cursed.   
"It'll be okay, Johnny. I'm sure he's just got somethin' to do." Paul put a gentle hand on his shoulder.   
"So, do we take it from the top then?" Colin asked.   
"...Yeah. I guess." John sighed. 

* * *

  
"So, how're things going with the Quarrymen?" George whispered to Paul in British History.   
Paul was fiddling with his pencil, his mind far off from the droning lecture that echoed through the room.   
"...Rod's been in and out, and Pete left."   
George made a sound of acknowledgement. "What are ye gonna do?"   
Paul shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't know."   
George pondered in deep thought for a long while before tapping Paul on the shoulder again.   
"Remember that one time me mum let you over?"   
Paul furrowed his brows to remember. It had been two years ago. He could vaguely remember the look of George's house.   
"...Yeah?"   
"You remember what I had a ton of in me room?"   
Paul snorted. "Porn mags?"   
George kicked Paul's shin and Paul coughed to hide his groan of pain.   
"No."   
Paul looked back over at George and he recognized the look on his sharp features.   
"...Guitars." 

* * *

  
"Stop stressing, John. It's not going to help any." Paul bit into a slice of cornbread he had dipped into his soup.   
John was staring into his as if it held the secrets of the universe. He poked at his spoon.   
"I'm not stressin'."   
"I can always tell."   
John lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth and blew on it, his glasses fogging up.   
"What do ye expect me ta do, Macca?"   
Paul looked at John earnestly and slid his hand over under the table to cover John's that rested on his knee.   
"Not to worry alone." 

* * *

  
On Thursday morning Paul saw John sitting behind the English building, smoking and reading his T.S Eliot book that Paul had fallen asleep reading on their date last week. Unknowingly, he smiled.   
Paul sat next to John on the curb and brushed the same hand against his knee.   
"Morning, Johnny."   
John grumbled something that was similar to 'g'morning.'   
"I've a solution that'll cheer you up."   
John lifted his head and looked at Paul skeptically.   
"Like what? You've grown an extra two arms and can play the guitar too?"   
Paul rolled his eyes.   
"No. My mate George agreed to show up to rehearsal today."   
John's expression lifted to that of pleasant surprise.   
"Well, you're certainly right."   
"About what?" Paul was curious.   
"Cheerin' me up."   
Paul smiled and John pressed a whisper of a kiss behind his ear.  
  


* * *

George walked up to Paul with his guitar case.   
"So where's this magical rehearsal room you blokes 'ave been usin'?"   
Paul pulled his father's keys out from his vest pocket.   
"You'll see."   
When they reached the Music Hall corridor, John and Colin were waiting there by the door.   
Paul saw something similar to nervousness cross George's expression at the sight of John.   
"Johnny, this is George." Paul cheerily introduced his friend.   
When John looked at George, George froze.   
"Hullo." John reached out a hand for George to shake and, gingerly, he took it.   
Paul tapped George on the side.   
"What's the matter?" He whispered.   
"This bloke's played the clubs for the past two years and he's known across the campus! Don't ya think I'd be a tad nervous?"   
Paul giggled and pushed George playfully.   
"Don't be nervous. He doesn't bite."   
John wiggled his eyebrows.   
"If ye don't get close enough, that is."   
Paul saw George's face flood with color and he laughed.   
"This is going to be fun." John said. 

* * *

  
The rehearsal went surprisingly smooth. George was fitting in, though John couldn't help but mess with him. He kept giving him the wrong lead-ins and switched songs unexpectedly. Paul may have participated in the teasing, though he would deny it.   
"Ye play pretty well, there, George." Colin patted him on the back and smiled.   
"Well, when me mum never lets me out I've gotta fill me time with something enriching..."   
Paul snorted, thinking of his snide comment earlier and George smacked him with a piece of sheet music left on the piano from choir.   
"I didn't know he was a violent bloke." John mused.   
"He's not." Paul said. "Usually."   
"Well, you've done a grand job, lad. I dig yer sound." John said to George smiling.   
George blushed and Paul giggled under his breath.   
"If Rod doesn't show next week, you're in."   
Paul and George were flooded with excitement.   
"You want me in your band?" George asked John.   
"'Course. You're a natural." John winked playfully and George smacked Paul again when he laughed.   
"Okay, then." He said. "Sign me up." 

* * *

Paul walked home with John that afternoon back to his house. The sun was hot beating down their backs as they walked down the sidewalk, tree leaves swaying and filtering through the warm beams of yellow and white.   
Paul slipped his hand in John's for a moment before they turned the corner and John couldn't stop the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.   
Paul stopped for a moment and John turned to look at him, his hand still resting softly between Paul's fingers. He looked behind him quickly before releasing John's hand and brushing his graceful fingers over the rough stubble of John's cheek.   
"...Johnny, have you ever fallen in love with anyone?"   
It was a simple question, yet the way Paul said it made John's chest ache with emotion. Memories suddenly flashed through his mind of him chasing women around, pointless as a dog to its own tail--the rejection from the boys he had cared for and the consistent emptiness that nagged at his insides.   
And then, those thoughts faded away. And gave way to his childhood. Walking hand in hand with his mother through the sunny garden of her house, her sandy hair reflecting light like gold.  
Paul was still looking at him with questioning, soft eyes. His mouth a delicate curve below his nose.   
"...Yes." Was his quiet response.   
Paul's lashes flicked down in an angular brush against his lily cheek. After a moment he looked back up at John, all steady lines with the firm shape of his jaw and the ever-thinking caramel eyes. His red-flecked brown hair swayed in the warm breeze.   
"...Please don't tell anyone but I think I love you." Paul spoke quietly as the roar of the trees created a thrum around them.   
John looked as if he were about to cry, and soon he couldn't help it. He wrapped his arms around Paul and held him close to his chest, his shoulders shaking with his sobs. A few tears leaked from Paul's eyes and trickled down his cheek.   
"I love you too." John whispered, his voice rasped from his sobbing.   
Little to their knowledge, Mimi had taken the time to pull back the drapes that morning. 

* * *

  
The following day at school, Paul was taking notes hastily in History on some archduke that built a bridge in London. Or something similar, he wasn't sure.   
He felt George tap his ankle with the toe of his dress shoe. Paul turned and George handed him a note scrawled on the back of a ripped up gum wrapper.

_'Do we have rehearsal this afternoon?'_

Paul looked up at the professor before quickly forming his response.

' _Yes_.'

He passed it back. Moments later it came popping back up onto his desk.

' _How's it going with you and you know'_

Paul hesitated a moment.

_'Good, as far as I know.'_

The clock struck 9 on the bell tower outside and its melodic tune rang through an open window.

_'You've been acting differently since yesterday, did you guys **do** anything?'_

It was Paul's turn to kick George in the ankle.

' _ **NO**_.'

_'Gee, sorry. Don't yell at me'_

' _Then don't ask **those** questions!'_

' _If ya didn't **you know** then what happened'_

' _Why do you want to know so badly?!'_

_'Because I'm a snoop.'_

' _Bloody well right yer a snoop'_

_'Just tell me'_

_'Fine. I told **you know** I **you know** them'_

George kicked Paul again.

"Ow!"

Professor Quarring turned to look at Paul.   
"Mr. McCartney, is everything alright?"   
Paul's face was crimson, he cleared his throat.   
"Yessir."   
"Carry on then."   
Paul nodded. George was snickering.

_'There's no point in kicking me over it!'_

_'Yes there was. You've known 'em a month and a half!'_

_'Shove off. You were flitting about him like a bird the other day!'_

George's face turned scarlet.

' ** _I WAS NOT.'_**

_'Were **too**.'_

_'Need I remind you of your endless flirting during the session? You couldn't keep your bleeding hands off each other!'_

' _Well, when else am I supposed to be able to do that?!'_

_'You haven't been in private?'_

_'A couple of times. But they were just simple dates.'_

_'Wow. So you really **haven't** then, have you?'_

_'I will kick you again'_

_'Sorry'_

* * *

  
George had officially been adopted into The Quarrymen, and John felt a strong potential rise in their capabilities. He wanted to book a gig, but Latterdales didn't have them on their charts anymore because Pete had been their only connection with the bartender and they haven't played a gig in a few weeks. So John decided that they would just do a number or two in the street that night, no harm, no foul, and no crowds of drunkards pushing and shoving about.   
It was 9:30 and there was a little group of high schoolers in the town square. They had their equipment and their instruments ready to go.   
"Are you sure about this?" Paul asked John.   
"Sure, and hey, this way we'll know--if people actually like the way we play, we'll attract a crowd. No one who doesn't want to be here has to be here." John lit a quick ciggie.   
Paul nodded, he did have a point.

"Alright lads-one--two--three--four!"

Colin burst into the drums and Paul jumped in with his bass as George's riff poured from their amp.   
John yelled a powerful howl before the start of Hound Dog.

As the set went on, the group of teens moved closer. Some of them dancing and singing along.   
An older man walked by and dropped a pound into John's guitar case.

Paul beamed at John and John waggled his eyebrows in response. They had been learning to communicate this way, in a series of nonverbal gestures. But it was still a work in progress. 

* * *

  
"I saw you guys in the town square the other night." One of John's friends, Julie said with a hint of flirtation at lunch.   
Paul, John, George, and Colin had all started sitting together. They got along well enough, but people were starting to recognize and see them play in little spots all over town.   
Paul blushed. "Yeah? What'd ye think?"   
"I think," she said with a smirk. "ye've got something really special there, Mr. McCartney."   
Julie didn't see, but John rested a hand on Paul's arm.

* * *

  
"John!" Mimi was scrubbing her stockings in the bathroom.   
"Yea?" John was on the verge of falling asleep as he was up all night. He had actually had inspiration for a song but it wasn't ready yet. Unfinished lines and messy scrawled notes around them.   
"I need you ta help me this Wednesday afternoon, there's an event at the church."   
"But Mimi, I'm supposed to play with Paul and the boys!"   
Mimi sighed. "Ye've been playin' an awful lot lately, do ye sleep at all, John?"   
"When I need to."   
Mimi paused.   
"Why don't ye play in the churchyard? There'll be a lot of people there for the gathering."   
John stopped to consider.   
"I'll think about it." 

* * *

  
"Play? At a church? Wouldn't they kick us out? Aren't we the 'problem'?" George asked.   
John laughed brightly. "Probably."   
"Then why take the risk?" Paul asked.   
"Why not?"   
Paul looked down at his shoes in the dirt.   
"I think we should do it. It'll be our largest audience yet." Colin said.   
"God help us." George murmured. 

* * *

  
The next day the band got together to discuss the idea in depth. Paul and John arranged the set they'd play and Colin and George worked on their growing dynamic.   
"Well play in the churchyard, after the service. That way we're not causing a racket." John said to Paul.  
"Well, we'll still be causing a racket. But it'll be better if we wait." Paul looked at the notes John was writing for their set, his handwriting was quick and passionate, messy enough to know it was written with purpose. He brushed his hand against John's a moment.  
"Is this next Wednesday?"   
John paused. "Yeah."  
"I'm going to have to tell me da then."   
"Wait--he doesn't know that you play with us?"   
Paul shifted uncomfortably. "In a way."  
"'In a way'?" John's anxiety blew through the ceiling.  
"He knows I'm playing bass with my mates, but he doesn't know it's with you, George and Colin."   
John put his head in his hands.   
"Paul, you need to tell 'em."   
"I know."   
"Then do something about it!"   
"Okay then. I'll tell 'em tonight."   
"Good." 

* * *

  
John slumped onto his bed, slipping off his shoes. It was 10:00 and he felt drained. Mimi stood in the hall.   
"Are you alright, baby?"   
John sighed. "...Yeah."   
"You sure?"   
"Not really."   
"What's the fuss, then?"   
John groaned and buried his head in his pillow.  
"I don't speak your language, luv, yer goin' ta have to speak up."   
"Paul hasn't told his dad he's been playing with my band."   
"Why not?"   
"His dad is....very strict. He probably wants Paul to be a teacher or something of the sort."   
"So ye think he views this guitar business like me, then?"'  
"A lot worse, more like."   
"How much worse? I think it's a waste o' good time and effort in the long run, but if it makes ye happy, Johnny--you know how I feel."   
John tried to word his response carefully. "Paul's dad doesn't care about his happiness."   
"What a sod."   
"Yea."   
"Parents are supposed to--"  
"--Yeah."   
"And if--"  
"--Yeah."  
"Well that's just bollocks!"   
"Mimi!" John laughed. "Watch yer gob."   
Mimi rolled her eyes. "I'm a tad older than you, John. I can use those words."   
John covered his ears. "I'm sorry, what?"   
"John!"   
"What?!"   
"John!"   
"I'm sorry, Mimi--I can't hear. Me ears 'ave stopped."   
"John, please listen to me."   
John removed his hands at Mimi's change in tone. Her face was serious.  
"...Ye really care for this boy, don't you?"   
John felt his face flush and he looked down at his hands.   
"...Yeah. But only because he's my mate! He needs me right now."   
Mimi sighed and sat next to John on his bed, the springs squeaking under her.   
"John, I saw you two the other day."   
John thought he was going to be sick.  
"You--what?"   
"The other day, when he was walkin' ye home from school. You two were by the apple tree out front."   
John couldn't stop his sudden reaction. Tears were already slipping down his smooth cheeks. Mimi held him close.   
"Shhh,"  
"I'm sorry, Mimi. Please don't kick me out on the street--I swear I'm not a queer, I can change."   
"John," She said gently.  
John looked up at her with wet eyes. Her face was soft, loving.   
"You've found something that everyone wishes they have. Let it make you happy. Let it grow. When I see you with that boy it's unlike anything I've ever seen before. Ye get along like two peas."   
John had stopped crying, he was just staring at her in amazement.  
"But--"  
"--You love him, don't you?" Mimi rested a hand under John's chin.  
"Yes." John didn't have a doubt in his mind.  
"Then go after him. Sing in yer band. I want you to play yer heart out--the pair of ya. I love you both. And I want you to play the churchyard on Wednesday."   
John hugged Mimi tighter than he ever had before, buried his face in her shoulder. His tears leaked out and left prints on her peacock blue blouse. She smelt of flour, peaches, and cologne.   
"I love you Mimi."   
"I love you too. Now get some sleep, it's late."   
John nodded. "Yes ma'am."   
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Just a quick WARNING to those who are reading who are triggered by vague mentions of physical abuse; there is some in here. It's not explicit, but it is implied.]   
> [Also this chapter hints at what inspired/happened around the recording of 'Hey, Johnny Johnny']

The early morning sunlight filtered through the trees that lined the little sidewalk outside Quarry Bank High School, and the shiny green metallic texture of the leaves glinted above John's head. He was glowing. Filled with a newfound passion. He needed to tell Paul all that had happened and wanted to see the happiness wash over his pretty face. But when he saw Paul sitting alone in the courtyard like he always did, legs delicately crossed--he knew immediately by the way he stared at the ground that something was wrong. 

"You okay, luv?" John asked as he sat on the cement planter next to him. 

Paul turned his head away. John started when he saw the glint of a white butterfly bandage on his right cheek and a bruise on the left side of his forehead. 

John was enraged. "I'll kill the bastard! I'll kill 'em!" 

Paul sobbed into his arms. "No, John! Please, it's alright! Really, it is!" 

"How is any of this alright, Paul? How can you stand it?" John tried to lower his voice. 

Paul shrugged, sniffling. "I don't know of any other way but to stand it." 

John shook his head. 

"It was an accident again. I got slapped and I fell with the force of it, if I had better footing--I wouldn't have hit my head against a lamp." 

"Then why is there a bandage on your cheek?" 

"What?"

"The bandage." 

"Well, the slap was rather hard."

"He broke your skin?!" 

Paul didn't answer, he just looked down at his shoes, his eyelashes wet with tears. 

"Was that all he did?" John asked after a moment. He put his hand over Paul's, grateful that they were behind the school. 

Paul shook his head. "He told me that I'm not focusing enough on school. And he wants me to get 'a real career.' He wants me to quit the band and get an internship at a law firm." 

"Fuck that shit." John spat. 

"That's easy enough to say, but what do I do, Johnny? He knows how much time I spend with you know and he doesn't like it. What if he finds out I love you? What if he finds out we're all a bunch of juvenile delinquents playing in clubs and alleyways?" 

"Were not delinquents." 

"Then what are we?" 

"Musicians. And we're going to keep going like them too." 

"But Johnny--"

"--Do you love me?" 

Paul blinked, confused at the sudden question. "Of course." 

"Then what else is there to worry about?" John cupped Paul's cheek. 

A few tears collected against John's hand and he brushed them away. 

"Do what you feel in your heart, Macca. Don't let a right sod like me try to tell ye how to handle yer dad." 

Paul sniffed. He paused a moment to collect himself. 

"I'm gonna play." 

"That's the Paulie I know." 

* * *

School flew by that day and Paul dreaded going home. John had canceled practice due to his current predicament and he chewed his lip raw with each step he took closer to his house. John had left a little while ago into his own house and Paul's was still a ways away. 

A mixture of guilt and dread settled in the pit of his stomach. 

* * *

"Mimi, can I talk to ye?" 

"O'course." 

John sat on his bed with his leg on his knee fidgeting with a pencil. 

"Paul isn't doing well." 

"Oh dear, is he sick?" 

"No."

"Oh." 

"His dad doesn't want 'em around me, cos I'm a bad influence and all that wash." 

"Well ye aren't an angel, Johnny." 

"That's not my point!"

Mimi chuckled. 

"His dad wants him to quit the band too. And he'll be even more violent if he finds out Paul and I are...romantically involved." 

"What do ye think I can do?" 

"If bad goes to worse, can Paul stay here, with me? With us?" 

Mimi thought deeply for a second. 

"How can I say no to you boys?" 

John hugged Mimi and spun her around, pressing a noisy kiss to her cheek. 

"Thank you thank you thank you thank you!" 

"Alright! Johnny, let go! Yer goin' ta wrinkle me apron!" 

"Sorry." 

Mimi shook her head. "S'alright."  

"I've gotta go then, it's late--anything could've happened by now." 

"Johnny," Mimi called as John grabbed the doorknob. 

John turned. 

"Be careful." 

* * *

Paul was lying on the floor of his living room. There were welts on his arms and a harsh cut on his lip. Too weak and too scared to move, he stayed there for what felt like hours. His mind stuck in a loop of hurt and desperation. 

He heard a thundering noise outside that sounded like footsteps. Followed by a pounding on the door. 

Jim had left the room about an hour ago to fix himself a drink in his study and Paul didn't expect him back anymore tonight. 

A swell of hope rose in Paul's chest. John?

"Oi! Ye bleedin' fuckhole open up!" 

It was most definitely John. 

Paul rose with an energy he didn't know he possessed and unlocked the door. 

"John! What are you doing?!" 

John stood there in his leather jacket and faded worn jeans. 

"What did you choose, Paul?" 

"What?" 

"What did you decide? Your heart, remember?" 

"I chose you, John. I chose music and the band and you." 

John didn't care whether or not anyone was looking, or even if Jim himself were in the room--he grabbed Paul and kissed him. 

He tasted blood, salt, and cigarettes. 

"James Paul McCartney! What is that noise?! Who's talking?" 

Paul almost felt sick. He tensed, mind going blank, but John put his hand on his arm. Jim shuffled drunkenly into the room and when he saw John something animalistic broke out in him. 

"You! I thought you were like me! Too smart for your own good! And you are! But you drag others down to your defiant level! You've ruined my son, Lennon! He's got his head so far up in the clouds he'll never see reality. And you and your dirty urges have got him all mixed up! Get out of my house!" 

John felt as he someone had stabbed him through the chest but he remained resolute. 

"Okay, Jim. I'll get outta yer house," He grabbed Paul's wrist. "but Paul's coming with me." 

Jim growled. "No he's not." 

"Dad," Paul's voice was shaking. "this is my choice. Try to see reason." 

Jim actually calmed down. 

"You realize what this means, don't you? If you walk out that door right now--this will never be the way it was again. You're ruining it all." 

Paul swallowed. Tears gathered in his eyes as he looked at his father. He loved him, but he couldn't handle this. It had been too long and he was tired of suffering. "Goodbye, da." 

Jim broke down into tears on his knees in the middle of the living room. 

John helped move Paul into his room as Paul felt numb and overwhelmed at the same time. Everything was happening and yet he felt disconnected from it all. Feeling and unfeeling all at once. John picked up his bass and led Paul out the door. 

"What about Michael?" Paul whispered. His chest ached terribly. 

"I had him stay with Colin after school tonight." John began to walk Paul to his house, their fingers intertwined. 

Paul was in a hazy state of consciousness the entire walk. He couldn't focus and when he tried the numbness only got worse. 

When John got Paul inside, Paul broke down crying in the kitchen and Mimi hugged him the whole time. John had never seen Paul cry so bad and he wept too, like a child. 

"It's okay now, dear." Mimi whispered over and over like a mantra. "It's okay." 

Paul knew it was. But that was what scared him. 

* * *

They stayed up most of the night. The clock read 2:00 AM and Paul and John sat in John's little wood-paneled room. Guitars in their hands. Paul had calmed down, but he was tired beyond belief. A song had come out of the whole ordeal and John placed a little silver box in between them. 

"...What's tha?" 

"A recorder. Pete gave it to me." 

Paul's eyes widened. "Wow." 

"I'm going to try and record this. I've never used it before. Do you want to?" 

Paul hesitated. "...Yeah." 

"Good." John hovered his hand over the red button. "Take one." 

* * *

Paul and John fell asleep curled together in a tangle of limbs, all smooth, pale skin encased in smooth cotton sheets. They both snored lightly. Mimi cracked the door open to check on them and closed it again before going to sleep herself. 

* * *

Paul was woken with a soft kiss pressed to the shell of his ear. He turned groggily to see John behind him, his arms securely wrapped around his waist. His eyes were closed still. 

"...'sit Morning?" 

John grunted. "Yea." 

"What day is it again?" 

"...Tuesday." 

Paul sighed, but suddenly he jerked up. 

"Wait, tomorrow's the gig." 

John groaned. "So? S'tomorrow." 

"I'm just nervous is all..." 

John laid his head on Paul's leg. "Be nervous later, we've still got a twenty minutes to rest before we have to leave for school." 

Paul started absentmindedly playing with John's hair and John was snoring again in moments. He wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway even if he were tired. 

* * *

"Alright, boys--one, two, one two three four--" 

The band sprung to life and rolled through the first half of their set before Colin tapped on Paul's shoulder. 

"Michael's fine and he's going to be with me for about a week or so, yer dad doesn't think anythin' of it cos he thinks it's a music training workshop." 

Paul was relieved. "Thank you so much." 

Colin smiled genuinely. "Of course, mate. Also, I have a friend who can re-string that bass for you by Friday." 

Paul was shocked. "Really?" 

"Yeah. You have to be tired of playing backwards by now, right?" 

"It's different, but I can manage." 

Colin shook his head. "Nah, I'll give it to 'em after the gig." 

Paul smiled. He wasn't sure what he did to have all of these things suddenly work out, but he wasn't complaining. Just a tad suspicious that the sky would fall again. 

"Paulie," John called. "everythin' alright?" 

"Yeah." 

"Well then, let's finish the set. We've got a while to perfect this before the service tomorrow." 

* * *

Mimi ran a comb through her hair, double-checking her makeup in the bathroom mirror. Her little AM radio was blaring a jazz number from over on the toilet lid. 

"M'home." John said as he passed her on the way to his room. 

"Home? Where've ye gone? It's eight in the mornin'!" 

"I had to run an errand." John rushed around his room to get ready for the concert. 

"Are you sure you won't get in trouble for skipping today, Johnny?" 

"Mimi, I skip even when I'm there. They won't even notice I'm gone." 

Paul was sitting in John's little desk chair in the corner, strumming his guitar. 

"I laid out your nice button up and jeans without any holes." He said. 

"Thanks, Macca, yer a life-saver." 

"I try." He was already dressed in a dark checked blue shirt of John's and his black slacks. 

They had become accustomed to sharing clothes, mainly due to the fact that Paul didn't want to return home to get his own. 

John dressed hastily and slicked up his hair in the mirror. Paul walked up behind him, slipping his arms around his waist. 

"Ye look great, Johnny." 

John smiled, blushing. "You too." 

"Okay, boys we need to start walking now if we want to make it on time. Or I do, because I'm actually going to the service." Mimi said as she grabbed her purse. 

Paul's cheeks were red when he saw Mimi standing in the hall beside them as he still had his arms around John. 

"Alright, were comin'." John put his guitar in his case and followed Paul and Mimi out. 

* * *

George was standing in the churchyard as a cool morning breeze ruffled his hair. He was smoking with Colin and they waved as John and Paul were near. 

"Wait," Mimi said before they could walk off. 

She reached up on her tiptoes to kiss them on the cheek and hugged them both. 

"Knock 'em dead." 

"If we do we're in the right place." John mused. 

Mimi shook her head. "I'll see you after the service." 

Paul and John walked up to George and Colin. 

"I'm surprised you blokes can get up this early." John joked with them. 

"We would have to anyway, cos of school, but at least we're doin' somethin' now." Colin said. 

"There's a little platform over there we can use." George nodded toward the garden where there was a little concrete slab that they could set up their equipment. Colin had only brought his snare. 

"Do ya really think we'll do okay?" Paul asked John. 

"Yes." Paul smiled, but John could still see the nervousness swimming in his eyes. "I have something for you," He said. 

Paul raised a brow. 

"C'mere," John led him over by an olive tree in the corner of the courtyard. He pulled out a rectangular black leather box from his pocket and pulled back the casing to reveal a silver bracelet with an engraving that had Paul's name on it. Paul's eyes widened. "John, you didn't have to," 

"Yer birthday's this Friday innit?" 

"...Yes." 

"Then shut up and take it." John laughed. 

Paul reached out for it gingerly and held it in his hand, the cool weight of it sending a shiver down his spine. When he flipped it over, there was a little engraved J on the backside. Paul hugged John tightly and when they broke apart, John fastened it onto his left wrist. 

"Are you two done over there? We start in a half hour!" George yelled. 

Paul and John turned, giddy. 

"Oh, hold on ta yer tits! We're comin'!" John walked back and Paul took his bass out. 

* * *

When the distant playing of an organ sounded the end of the service, everyone was standing there, ready and waiting. Paul's heart beat so violently he felt the vein in his neck pulse. 

"Ready lads," John started. 

Colin counted them off and when the doors swung open they started to play. 

Crowds of well-dressed men and women poured out of the church in a plethora of colors. And some started to gather at a slight distance from the stage, looking on in interest. 

John jumped into vocals, his powerful voice carrying along strong with the music and Paul smiled at him as he played. 

George was beaming, as was Colin. Paul turned as he heard Mimi whoop from the audience, her light pink and pastel purple dress swaying in the breeze as she clapped her white gloved hands. 

Suddenly, more people started to clap to the beat and they drew closer. Children danced about in their church clothes and a man in a black suit looked on curiously from the olive tree. 

As they transitioned into the next song, more and more people started to dance and the man from the tree was standing five feet away from the platform. He wore sunglasses and it was difficult to make out his expression. Paul grew nervous. 

'Who is that?' He mouthed to George. 

George shrugged and raised his eyebrows. 

 

The set rolled on and after about an hour they finished. The swarm of church goers clapped and a few ladies put a five pound note into John's guitar case. But when everyone cleared out, the man remained. He approached John. 

"Hi, I'm Allan Williams. I'm with a small recording company based at Jaracanda Music Club," He gave John a hand to shake and he took it a little cautiously. 

"John Lennon." 

"Nice to meet you, John. And who are these lovely boys?" 

John tried not to snicker. "This 'ere's Paul, Colin, an' George." He gestured to each of them. 

Mr. Williams shook their hands as well before pulling out a yellow memo pad. 

"What would you boys say to playing a private gig this Saturday at the club? And if we like you, we might want to make you a record." 

John looked faint. "... _Really?"_  

Mr. Williams smiled. "Yes." 

Paul beamed at John. "Go on, go for it, Johnny." 

John stuttered. 

"If ye don't shake the man's hand we'll be here a week." George pushed John playfully and John finally took Allan's hand. 

"We'll see you Saturday, Mr. Lennon." Mr. Williams said as he walked off. 

Colin snorted. "Nice coordinating, 'Mr. Lennon.'" 

"Shove off. I was nervous." 

"I can't believe someone wants us to make a record..." Paul said quietly. 

"Y'know what that means, right?" John asked him. "We have to get writing." 


	10. Chapter 10

Smoke filled the room as John and Paul worked. Each squinting through the haze as they puffed on their cigarettes. Paul was teaching John different chord variations and occasionally stealing glances at him. John noticed, but didn't say anything.   
"And if you do that like this," Paul covered John's hand with his own and strummed down on the new chord. "You'll get a completely different sound. A more mellow feel."   
John nodded and took a note on the side of his busy notebook. He extinguished his cig and watched Paul as he worked on his own part. The glide of his graceful fingers along the thick strings on the fretboard. He had big, soft hands, apart from the toughness of his fingertips. And nails clean and manicured like a lass's, though the sides were jagged from his nervous chewing habit.   
"Paul," John started, not sure where he was going.   
Paul looked up, all wide eyes and sweet smoke as it billowed from his mouth.   
"Yeah?"   
John took the ciggie from his mouth and replaced it with his lips. He felt Paul's eyes flutter against his cheek and soon they enveloped each other. John fumbled with the lit cigarette, nearly burning a hole in his pants until he dropped it in the ashtray and slid a curious hand under Paul's shirt roaming over the smooth skin of his torso. Paul squirmed at the sudden touch, little sounds swallowed by the hungry press of John's mouth.   
"John," He started.   
John was kissing heatedly along Paul's collarbone as he had undone the top button.   
"...Yeah?" His warm breath left his nose against Paul's skin, making him shiver.   
"D'you want to...be together?" Paul asked breathlessly.   
"You mean romantically?" John had to joke, no one else was gonna say it.   
"Well, yes, but...physically?" Paul felt his face burn with heat.   
"What d'you think?" John began kissing down Paul's chest in a line, his hands unbuttoning as he went.   
Paul squirmed. "...That--y'do."   
John nodded and looked up at Paul's hooded eyes with a desire he had only caught glimpses of before. He felt one of his hands unfasten his pants and prayed he could keep himself together. 

* * *

  
Paul was breathless and quite red. No bird in the world could do what John had done. Not even the men he had tried to be with. His mouth had been the most intimate sensation he had ever experienced, not that he hadn't experienced it before, but it was so different now. It wasn't just someone getting him off, it was an emotional experience. And when he had touched John, he felt as if his skin were on fire. He had heard John make sounds only the darkest part of his mind dared to fantasize up to this point, in its wanderings in Maths or History.   
And now, they lie together, in John's bed, like always. John's soft skin was red with heat as he laid facedown into his pillow, an arm wrapped protectively around Paul's waist. Paul finished his cigarette before drifting off, nuzzling against John's neck. He wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else. 

* * *

  
The next day at school, George noticed a slight change in dynamic between Paul and John. There were more casual touches, less blushing and more comfort in silences. George knew.   
In History, they passed notes again. George slid his over on Paul's desk.

'You did it didn't you'

Paul rolled his eyes.

'In a way'

'Oh, I see.'

George winked at Paul and Paul kicked him in the shin again.

"Ow!" He whispered.

Paul stuck his tongue out at George and George wrote angrily on another piece of ripped notebook paper.

'There's no need to kick me! And what's that on your wrist?'

Paul looked down at the bracelet.

'John gave it to me.'

'Awe, are ya getting married?'

Paul resisted the urge to kick George again.

'No. But you're not invited anyway. So shove off.'

George snickered. 

* * *

  
John got sent to the headmaster's office for falling asleep in Science, but when he went a woman sat in his desk instead.   
"Hello?"   
"Mr. Lennon, please have a seat."   
John did as he was told.   
"What 'appened to Mr. McCartney?"   
The woman sighed. "He wasn't feeling well today."   
"Oh, I see."   
She gave him the usual talk about behavioral issues and scribbled something on his record which John assumed must've been a thrilling novel by now and he was on his way.   
"...I just don't understand. He came to me yesterday and said he wanted to quit. And become a painter! How obscure!" John heard a man say from  
The break room. He lingered a moment, pretending to be interested in the dirt under his nails.   
"Well, Paul's in a band and Michael's off at music training, so maybe he's following the lead."   
"Maybe."   
John shook his head and left the office. He had heard enough for one day.

* * *

  
Friday evening on Paul's birthday, Mimi gave John some money to take him out to eat at a diner on the boardwalk by the Mersey.   
John wasn't too excited because it was a formal place, and if both of them dressed up and went, by the end of the night there would be assumptions that neither of them wanted floating around.   
"So, what do we do?" Paul asked, he was looking through his clothes that his brother managed to smuggle him the previous weekend.   
"I dunno." John sighed. He looked at the suit that lie on his bed and glanced at Paul, his eyes scanning his strong, yet delicate form.  
"How do ye feel about dresses?" He joked.   
Paul turned scarlet. " _John_!"   
"Ah, don't give me that, after a few drinks you wouldn't mind a tick." John giggled.   
"Shut up!" Paul huffed and sat on the bed, arms crossed.   
"Y'know I don't mean it like those other blokes! I think you'd genuinely look good and nobody would question it!"   
"I'm sorry John, do I look crazy to ya?"   
"In a good sort of way, yes."   
"Lay off it."   
"Don't ya want ta go out? I want to. I want to be able to show ye off in public but I can't--and it's yer birthday!"   
Paul blushed. _Show him off?_  
"I bloody well know what day it is."   
John batted his eyelashes at Paul and Paul looked away.   
"This is mad. Yer outta yer head."   
John disappeared for a moment and returned with his hands behind his back. Paul refused to look at him.   
John held up a blue floral dress and stockings and flourished them in Paul's face.   
"Get that shite away from me!"   
"Oh, c'mon, Macca!"   
"No!"   
"Ye'd be such a pretty lass!"   
'Pretty Paulie' John thought to himself. He grinned.   
"No way, John." Paul turned around. "And I'd have to shave me legs! I already can't stand shavin' me face!"  
"But I've stockings, no one could tell. If worse comes to worse, I'll say yer a French bird."   
Paul groaned and buried his face in the sheets on the bed. "Don't make me do this."   
John sat on the bed tossing the floral mess aside. "I'd never make ye do it, I'm only offering."   
"That's a damn persistent offer."   
"Only because you're damn persistent in sayin' no before ye even know what I'm talking about."   
Paul thought a moment.   
"I still don't want to do it." He said.   
John looked down at his shoes.   
"But I'll do it for you."   
John grinned. "Okay then, Paulie--let's get you prettied up."   
Paul held up a hand. "Ye don't worry about me. I'll pretty meself. You--get yer damn monkey suit on."   
"Yessir."   


* * *

  
Paul locked himself in the bathroom and stared at the mirror. He took a deep breath.   
'...Okay. You can do this.'   
He looked over at the silken mess sitting on the toilet seat and swallowed.   
Paul stepped out of his clothes and took the stockings in hand, hesitating to put them on over his underwear. He eventually sighed and did it anyway, trying to do it the way he remembered seeing his mother do.   
It wasn't completely unpleasant, as he found out. It was a soft, snug sensation. One of which he wasn't accustomed to. But he decided not to focus on it. Thankfully, they were dark enough that they didn't show his legs.   
Paul looked over at the dress, pulse racing. This wasn't going to be an easy night.

* * *

  
"Ye done yet, Macca?" John tapped lightly on the door.   
Paul had managed to get the dress on and John was right, with the proper accessories and facial alterations, Paul didn't look off at all. His cheeks burned at the observation as he rummaged through a drawer for some lipstick.   
"No!"   
"We should head out soon, it's nearly 9."   
"Already?!"   
"Yeah."   
Paul applied a dark shade of red and the simple addition changed his face completely. He looked at himself wide-eyed in amazement.   
"Alright, you go back in the room and I'll come out."   
He heard John sigh. "Fine."   
Paul cracked the door and peeked out, creeping slowly into the hallway. His face and ears burned and he could feel his pulse in his temples.   
When he stepped into John's room he saw John standing there, his back to the open door, arms crossed.   
Paul tread lightly in his stockinged feet over the carpet and tapped him on the shoulder. When John turned around, his expression was definitely worth the hassle.   
"M-M..."   
"Go on, Johnny, sound it out."   
John looked at Paul, physically sweating. "Y-You..."   
"Yeah?"   
"You look...lovely."   
"Yer bloody welcome." Paul kissed John's cheek, leaving a faint print of his mouth in the red lipstick against his skin.   
"Do ya have a scarf? I have a feeling that they're goin' ta see my throat and start thinking things."   
John fumbled around his room before disappearing down the hallway to Mimi's. He returned with a plain blue silk scarf and handed it to Paul, averting his gaze.   
"Are ye shy, luv?" Paul asked him. "I thought I was the shy one."   
John was sputtering. "Shut up an' put that on, I'll get yer shoes."   
Paul couldn't help but laugh. "I thought you were wild around the lasses, John!"   
"Yer not a lass!" He yelled from Mimi's room.   
Paul burst into laughter again, falling back over on the bed and clutching his sides. 

* * *

  
When they stepped out into the foggy night Paul caught a chill.   
"I'm freezin' me lady parts off."   
John snorted as he courted him with his arm.   
"Those aren't lady parts yer freezin'."   
Paul smacked John on the shoulder. They were a block from the restaurant. So far, so good.   
"Sir, Madame," The doorman nodded as he swung the large oak door open.   
A posh dining area with red booths and brass accents was revealed and both boys stared in amazement.   
"Wow."   
"Do you have a reservation?" The host asked.   
John cleared his throat. "Yes."   
"Under what name?"   
"Lennon."   
"Lennon--for two, right this way."   
Paul was sweating at the prospect of someone seeing through his act. He just kept his arm through John's and smiled politely. And, if he wasn't mistaken, one of the waiters nearly tripped when they saw him.   
"Here you are," The host nodded and left back to his post.   
Paul slid into his side of the booth, shivering at the feeling of cold leather through his nylons.   
"...Johnny, I don't like this."   
John waved a dismissing hand. "Paul, we're fine, no one's questioning a thing."   
"Ye better be right."   
John only winked in response. 

* * *

  
The food was better than anything they had ever tasted. It left them wondering if that was what actual food should've tasted like, and when it was time for dessert--John ordered a sundae.   
"This is so nice of you,"   
"See, comin' 'round to see my point."   
Paul raised a brow and John shrunk, red into his shirt collar.   
"That's not what I meant!" Paul kicked John's knee under the table.   
"Ow!"   
The waiter came and set the ice cream between them and that settled the argument for now. Paul scooped up all the whipped cream and ate it first while John dug for the ice cream.   
He tried to focus on his food instead of seeing how Paul would clear the excess cream with a quick sweep of his tongue, or accidentally brush his knee with his toe.   
John summoned the waiter and cleared his throat.   
"Could I, er, have a drink?"   
"Of course sir, what can I get you?"   
"How much is top shelf wine?"   
The waiter showed him the price and John almost spit ice cream everywhere. "Let's go medium shelf."   
The waiter looked at him in confusion, but disappeared into the kitchen.   
"Medium shelf, John?" Paul teased, scooping up a spoonful of vanilla ice cream.   
"I'm not picky right now!"   
"It'd be nice if ye could enjoy yerself _without_ alcohol tonight."   
"I can! But," John lowered his voice and leaned in. "yer dressed like a bloody bird, Macca--give me a break. There's no way for me to make it out of this alive while sober."   
Paul swallowed, quite red. "Oh."

"But father, how do I do that?" Paul eavesdropped unintentionally from behind him and he flicked his gaze over his shoulder. What he saw nearly made him choke on the cherry he had just put into his mouth.   
"What?" John asked.   
Paul mouthed his response   
_'Pete's here'_  
"Beat sneer?"  
 _'No!'_  
"Feet smear?"   
_'No!'_   
"Oh, y'mean 'meet deer'?"   
"That doesn't even make any sense!" Paul finally said aloud.   
"Well, neither does what yer sayin!"   
"Pete's here!" Paul whispered frantically.   
John's eyes were as wide as dinner plates.   
"Here you are, sir, medium...shelf." The waiter muttered as he set the glasses down on the table before walking away.   
John took a deep drink without turning his head.   
"John, calm down--he won't even notice." Paul tried to calm him.   
"Yes he will!"   
Paul placed his hand over John's on the table and looked at him gently. John's pulse quickened, but he stopped tensing.   
"...If we make it outta here alive, I'm going to return my gratitude for my birthday present."   
John choked on his wine and Paul smirked.   
John saw Pete turn his head from the other booth and he ducked his head down into a menu.   
Pete's eyes shone with recognition and he acted like he wanted to say something, but his dad was talking to him. Luckily, he only saw Paul from the backside.   
"Pete saw me." John whispered, setting the menu down.   
Paul had a mouthful of ice cream. "Wha?"   
"Ye heard me!"   
"...Should we leave?"   
"How? He'll see you."   
Paul sighed. "How do we do this?"   
John tapped his fingers rapidly on the table and sipped his wine.   
"Careful planning, and maneuvering."   
"Why do those words scare me?"   
"Go on, sound 'em out, Paulie."   
"Cheeky bastard." 

* * *

  
They snuck out while Pete was immersed in whiskey and talk of business operations. Paul clung to John's side and the doorman let them out, glancing at Paul's figure in the dress.   
When they were down the boardwalk John wrapped an arm around Paul's waist.   
"Did ye see that?!"   
"What?" Paul looked at John with his big, questioning eyes.   
"The doorman! He was starin' at yer arse!"   
Paul looked surprised. "Really?"   
"Yeah!"   
"...And yer mad because...?"   
"Because!" John paused.   
Paul motioned with his hand for John to continue.   
"Because!" He started again. There was another hesitation before he adjusted his collar and looked down at the ground. "If anyone has the right to do that it's me!"   
Paul snorted.   
"What're you laughin' at?"   
"Because yer jealous, Johnny."   
"I never said that!"   
"You didn't 'ave to."   
John grumbled and shoved his free hand into his pocket and Paul left a kiss on his cheek. When John turned red again, he smiled.   
"Lets get ye back into yer normal damn clothes."   
"But the night isn't over."   
"Whaddy'a mean?"   
Paul closed the space between him and John and ran a hand along the firm line of his torso.   
"I still 'ave to thank you."   
John's face was scarlet. "Oh." 

* * *

  
In the early morning hours when they were panting and sated in John's bed, wrapped up in the soft cotton of his sheets--Paul felt protected from the world. All of the terrible things that affected him couldn't reach him here. Here, he was wrapped in John's strong arms and a soft auburn lock of his hair tickled his cheek. Here, everything was right with the world.   
And Paul wanted it to last forever. 

* * *

  
The next morning, John got a call from Mr. Williams. He wanted them at the club for a test recording by noon. So the boys got out of bed, groggy and a tad cranky. Well, John was more than a tad, and Mimi made them pancakes which improved his mood significantly.   
John rung up George and Colin and told them the news and they agreed to be there.   
"Alright, let's get to it then." John went to get dressed and Paul stopped him for a moment.   
"Wait, Johnny--"  
John turned, his eyes slightly unfocused without his glasses in the blur of the morning.   
"I love you."   
John's immediate smile made Paul's heart melt.   
"I love you too." John responded. 

* * *

  
The Jaracanda Music Club was a rather large bar and lounge uptown. It had an old log cabin sort of feeling and had pool tables in the back and a smoking room.   
George whistled, impressed.   
"They want us to play here? Have they seen us?" Colin asked John.   
John laughed. "Apparently their entertainment taste doesn't match their ambiance."   
"Hello boys," Mr. Williams greeted them as he stepped out of an unmarked door near the pool tables.   
"Afternoon, sir." Paul said, shaking his hand as he went down the line of them.   
"Now, I'm going to show you the studio. And I want you to know that this is all a very new project I've been doing. No one has set foot in there besides me." He began to lead them where he had appeared from.   
"What made ye want to start recording?" John asked curiously.   
Mr. Williams smiled. "A passion. A passion for talent and under appreciated youths such as yourselves."   
"Ye sure ye 'avent been paid to say that?" George asked.   
Mr. Williams laughed goodheartedly. "Not a dime. I like you Liverpool blokes, you're full of gumption."   
"No, 's just gas." John replied.   
"See what I mean?" Mr. Williamson opened the red door and gestured inside. "Alright boys, this way." 

* * *

  
It was a little two-booth recording studio with an 8-track recorder and drum set, but to the boys--it was the biggest opportunity they'd had in their lives.   
"So, what'd ye want us to do?" John asked Mr. Williams.   
"I need Colin and Paul in room two with the drums and John with George in room 1."   
John saluted. "Sir, yessir."   
Paul got himself situated with Colin behind the glass and John opened the door and let George in first.   
"S'kinda cramped in here," George observed, taking his guitar out.   
"Sorry 'bout that," Mr. Williams was adjusting microphone levels.   
"How are we supposed to know when our cues are when half the band's in the other room?" John said into the mic.   
Mr. Williams pressed the red button on his own microphone and leaned over to speak in it. "I'm going to adjust it so that you can hear them in these headphones that I will pass out to you."   
"Woah," Colin said, looking around at the little room at the speaker on the ceiling where Mr. William's voice was coming from.   
Paul laughed. "This should be fun."   
"Yeah, we can only hope it isn't a bloody disaster." John responded.   
Paul was befuddled. "Wait, how can you hear me, Johnny?"   
"I've the headphones on now."   
Paul blushed. "Oh."   
Mr. Williams came in and gave Colin and Paul each their own pair and when he left Paul tapped on the mic.   
"Hey, Georgie, can you hear me?"   
"Yea?"   
"Ye missed a button on yer shirt."   
"Fuck you, McCartney."   
The only sound that followed was Paul's laughter.   
"Alright, settle now, we're going to try out a take. Now, think of one of your numbers and when you've got it just nod your heads at me back here in the booth, okay?"   
"Got it." John and Paul answered.   
"Okay, good."

* * *

  
They spent a couple hours there, testing and trying out things. Mixing and un-mixing. They felt immensely proud of themselves and afterward, Mr. Williams wanted to buy them all a drink out at the bar.   
"Shit, as if I'd say no." John packed up his guitar and headed out of the studio with George, Paul, and Colin in toe.

"Y'know, I feel like I've found something really special with you boys," Mr. Williams was saying on his second glass of brew.   
"That's what all the birds say, but how are you any different?" John asked, slurring slightly.   
George snorted into his mug.   
"Very clever, but I mean musically."   
"Oh?" Paul said, sipping from his mug.   
"But I don't feel very special," Colin said, slightly pensive. "Me brother's a drummer too, and he's much better than me. He's gotten offers for all these musical scholarships at art colleges and whatnot."   
"Ye've never mentioned a brother, what's 'is name?" Paul asked.   
"Pete."   
"Another Pete? He's not like Pete, Pete is he?"   
"No, far off."   
"Good."  
"Good, indeed, we don't need a repeat performance of whatever the hell happened to him and Rod."   
"Their parents got peeved off because they weren't focusing on their studies, and they've both families that have those large businesses y'see," Colin went on explaining, "at least that's all they'd tell me."   
"Since when are you the bloke of encyclopedic knowledge?" John asked Colin.   
Colin just shrugged and sipped his beer. "I'd figure now was a better time than never. And I'm not sure if my own parents will let me continue."   
"But they're letting Pete play, so why not you?"   
"I'm a mechanic."   
"What?!" John choked on his beer.  
"Well that's what I originally wanted to do, but after some soul-searchin', y'know how people get."   
"We can't have ye walk off now, what do we do without a drummer?" John was starting to panic.   
Mr. Williams was busy chatting up a bird on a bar stool next to him.   
"I didn't say I was leavin' keep yer knickers on, Lennon!"   
Paul snorted and John smacked his shoulder.   
John took a deep breath.   
"Worst case, I'll try and see if Pete wants to step in for a while until you guys can find a replacement--if, and when I do go."   
"Well that sounds reasonable," Paul said.   
"You'll say that to anything." George snickered.   
Paul pushed George and he slid off the stool, stumbling to his feet.   
"I need another drink." John murmured.

 


End file.
